


His Delicate Condition

by Rosawyn



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Adoption, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Body Dysphoria, Canon is Like Lego and I Do What I Want, Childbirth, Claire Temple Being Awesome, Crying, Dick Jokes, Discussion of Abortion, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Forced Pregnancy, Forgiveness, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Hugs, Hydra (Marvel), Implied Sexual Content, Internalized Transphobia, Internalized Victim Blaming, M/M, Mpreg, Past Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Pregnancy, Sam Wilson Being Awesome, Sam Wilson Cooks, Sam Wilson is a Saint, Self-Hatred, Self-Worth Issues, Star Wars References, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, Steve and Bucky are adorable angsty dorks, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Trans!Brock Rumlow, Unintentional Redemption, except really not that kind of mpreg, the kind of mpreg that can happen irl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-14 01:15:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 38,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4544511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosawyn/pseuds/Rosawyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Brock signed up with Hydra, he thought he understood what that meant.  He thought he understood the risks to himself.  He didn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When Brock was born, his parents named him 'Britney'.

In their defence, they thought he was a girl, and they couldn't exactly be blamed for that, because he _looked_ like a girl. In every way a newborn baby can. The doctor took one look between his tiny little legs and proclaimed, “It's a girl!” with a smile. (Congratulations, doctor, on correctly identifying human sex organs—doctors who deliver babies probably know better than most that it's honestly not always that easy. But Brock's were easy enough: unquestionably female. Simple.)

And it's natural, expected, _normal_ for parents to bequeath gendered names upon their children based on the physical shape of their bodies. So Brock can forgive them for giving him a girl's name. But, did it really have to be _Britney_? There are _much_ better names they could have chosen—Jean, Cora, even Tanya—strong, simple names. Or, what about something wreathed in history and steeped in ideas of power and capable leadership, like Catherine or Elizabeth? But no; no well-respected queens for Brock: he got the fucking Pop Princess. 'Hit me baby one more time.' It was a fucking curse. He couldn't quite forgive his parents for _that_.

When he got his surgery done to look less like the woman he wasn't, there were so many _options_ , and getting his uterus removed was one of the things he just couldn't justify. It felt a bit too invasive, a bit too unnecessary to warrant the cost. It's not like anyone was going to _see_ it.

And it's not like he was the only man in the world with a fully intact uterus; that guy who kept making headlines for being a pregnant man obviously had one too.

Not that Brock himself ever intended to be a pregnant _anything_ , but he didn't exactly foresee this turn of events. It wasn't helpfully laid out in the Hydra pamphlet: 'We might decide to make you pregnant; just so you know, that's part of what you're agreeing to when you agree to work for us.'

The knowledge that the crazy doctor who forcibly implanted embryos in his womb wasn't exactly working with the blessing of whatever was left of Hydra doesn't really offer much comfort. _Nothing_ offers much comfort. Except maybe that guy: headline 'pregnant man' guy. Because he managed to birth _more than one_ healthy baby. So maybe Brock's will be okay too.

Not that the baby's really _his_ —isn't even genetically related to him as far as he knows. (He isn't sure how many she put in him, pretty much doesn't want to know, but just the one stuck—he's heard the heartbeat even if she never let him see the ultrasound images.) But it's in his goddamned belly, swimming about and leeching all the nutrients out of everything he eats and leaving him tired as _hell_ , so if anyone can lay claim to it, it's Brock. Stupid ex-Hydra doctor could have used her _own_ womb if she wanted somewhere to grow a baby. (Could have asked someone's permission if hers didn't work.)

So he breaks her neck when most of her guards are off dealing with whatever the threat is—police, army, some splintered fragment of SHIELD?—and steals what he can find of her records, because maybe the genetic makeup of the baby will be important. In case it gets some sort of disease or something. Knowing crazy Hydra doctors and how they tend to play into every sci-fi mad scientist trope, she probably buggered a few things up on purpose just to see what would happen. Brock's stomach clenches, but he doesn't have time to stand around and worry.

Of course, he doesn't actually make it out of the building without running into Steve fucking Rogers and the Winter fucking Soldier. And it's not even so much that he doesn't want to die; it just feels a bit unfair to take a _baby_ with him, so, holding up his hands, he goes to his knees. “Don't—don't shoot.” His voice is weak, crumbling. “I'm—” His eyes fall to the swell of his belly, barely disguised by the loose t-shirt and drawstring pants—they _must_ already see it, even if they're not sure _what_ they're seeing. He swallows. “I'm pregnant.”

Rogers and Barnes share a confused look, but then Rogers holsters his gun. “Don't worry,” he says, “we're not gonna kill you, Brock.”

Maybe they'll turn him over to SHIELD, maybe even some part that was never Hydra. He's not sure if that would be better or worse.

o0o

They take him with them to an only _slightly_ grungy motel. Apparently they're working with Sam fucking Wilson, aka the guy Brock fought specifically and specifically tried to _kill_ during Project Insight. He can't think of a way to apologize for that, so he just sticks close to Rogers' side and hopes he makes good on his promise.

Steve tells Brock to sit, and he has to roll his eyes, because pregnant or not, he's not weak or fragile. Or at least, he doesn't _want_ to be. But he's a prisoner—again; that's really his whole fucking _life_ right there—so he sits on the edge of one of the beds and accepts the bottle of water Steve hands him. And the water's nice, actually, washing the smoke and dust from his throat.

“So is this, um, something that can happen now?” Steve's looking, awkward and confused, between the others in the room. “Men getting pregnant?”

Wilson shakes his head. “Not usually, no, but some trans men can—if, well, they still have a uterus.” He glances awkwardly at Brock. The whole thing is grossly, jaggedly awkward.

Brock sighs in frustrated exasperation. “Yeah. That's me.” Then, resting his forearms on his thighs, he lets his shoulders slump, staring with unfocused eyes at the ugly speckled grey carpet and adds quietly, bitterly, “Brock Rumlow ain't a _real_ man.”

“ _Hey_ ,” Wilson cuts in, all righteous indignation, “of _course_ you're a 'real' man.” And then he pokes him in the arm and adds, “Sure don't feel imaginary to me.” Brock has to smile a bit at that, because it's always such a fucking relief when someone accepts that he is in fact a man rather than arguing the point. More often than not, the very best he can get is some fucking patronizing offer to 'agree to disagree'.

o0o

Wilson goes to get takeout, probably so the two supersoldiers can make sure Brock doesn't make a run for it or something. Not like he would, but whatever. He takes a shower, even though they don't have any spare pants that would fit him—he'll just put the same ones back on. Wouldn't be the first time he's had to put on the same clothes after a shower. Though, if he gets much bigger, he's going to need new pants.

He really has nothing in the world—nothing but the clothes he wore when he escaped, his body, and the baby.

When they're eating, Steve sits down next to Brock and blows out a breath through his lips. “I...never knew you were trans.”

Brock rolls his eyes. “That's kind of the fucking _point_ , Rogers.”

Steve ducks his head, a flash of a small, sheepish smile on his face. He mumbles, “Sorry.”

And it's the stupidest thing. Because Brock betrayed his trust and his friendship, lied to him repeatedly, fought him, held a gun to his head, and here Steve is saying sorry for some mildly ignorant comment about gender identity. Shaking his head, Brock mutters, “You're a real piece of work, Rogers.” Then, before Steve can come up with some response—and he's looking all sincere and shit—Brock adds, “Aren't you gonna hand me over to the cops or the army or something?”

“Do you want us to?” Barnes asks from where he's sitting on the other bed, halfway through his third hamburger.

Brock shakes his head. “I have no fucking clue what I want.” He shrugs. “It's not like it's fucking mattered, since I joined up with Hydra.”

“That's the thing about crazy Nazi cults,” Wilson comments, “they're not so big on personal freedoms.”

Brock has to nod, because, well, _obviously_. He kind of learned that the hard way. “Okay, but...you're not just gonna let me walk away.”

Steve turns slightly towards him. “What we want to do...” He glances at Barnes who's nodding then back at Brock. “...is help you, if you'll let us.”

Brock's eyes dart mistrustfully from Rogers to Wilson to Barnes. “What do you mean by 'help'?”

“Everyone needs help,” Barnes says, quiet and matter of fact.

Wilson nods. “And usually, when a person is pregnant, they need a bit more help than they would otherwise.”

“So...what?” Brock takes a big bite of the burger they've given him, chews, and swallows. “You gonna feed me, clothe me, do your best to protect me from Hydra goons?” It's what they've been doing so far, and apparently what Rogers has been doing for Barnes (for however long that's been going on)...and with reasonable success, obviously.

Steve nods. “Yeah. That's basically the plan.”

“Rumlow,” Barnes says quietly. Brock looks up, meeting his eyes, expectant. “How did you become pregnant?” It's not exactly a delicate question, but the Winter Solider was never exactly delicate. And there isn't really a delicate way to ask that, anyway.

“Fuckin' crazy Hydra doctor,” Brock explains. “Drugged me, strapped me down—didn't even tell me what she was doing, just did it. But I figured it out soon enough I guess.” He laughs once, dry and bitter. Pulling the flash drive from his pocket, he hands it to Rogers. “This is all the info I could find on what she did—no idea if she put notes as to _why_. You guys were bustin' up the place.” He looks down, pressing his lips together. “I've really got no idea what it even _is_ —could be alien for all I know.” Imagine the headlines, though: 'Nazi Man Gives Birth to Alien Spawn'. A true cautionary tale—that's what you get for being evil, kids.

Wilson—he's sitting at the desk—shifts in his chair, says quietly, carefully, “We could take you somewhere to have it terminated, if that's what you want.”

“ _Fuck_ , no.” Brock's standing and he doesn't remember doing it, and he's almost in a battle stance, but he's shaking and his centre of gravity's all wrong and there's three of them and two are fucking supersoldiers, so he really wouldn't have a _chance_...

Wilson's voice is quiet, calm and calming. “All I'm saying is that you do have that option, and none of us would judge you if you made that choice. But of course it _is_ _your_ choice. No one's gonna force you.”

Brock runs a shaky hand through his hair. “Yeah.” He swallows. “I just...you know, it wasn't my choice when they put this baby in me, but...” He rubs his hand over his mouth, sniffing. He probably should consider his options, what limited ones he has. Should probably fucking think this through rationally. But he made the choice when he asked them not to kill him for the child's sake. Be pretty inconsistent to pull a one-eighty now. “I'd rather, now, that it stay in there until it's ready to come out.”

“That's fine,” Steve says softly, touching Brock's arm gently in a way that's probably meant to be soothing and probably even would be if it wasn't so fucking bizarre. “Whatever you choose, we'll respect and support that.”

And Brock has to sit back down before he fucking _faints_ , and he knows it's really the stress and the exhaustion and the fucking _pregnancy_ , but it just feels so stereotypically _female_ that it crawls across his skin, a terrible wrongness. He rubs both his hands over his face, draws a shaky breath. “Why the hell would any of you care? I'm the enemy, remember?”

“I was 'the enemy' too,” Barnes says quietly. “We fought on the same side; maybe we can again.” He shrugs. “And it's important that no one takes your choices away. Not again.”

It's not the same, him and Barnes, not at _all_. They never strapped Brock into a chair and burned away his memories. Never did _half_ the things to him they did to Barnes. He shakes his head. He should be trying to encourage their help, but... “I joined Hydra of my own free will,” he says, not looking at any of them. “I wasn't captured or tortured or brainwashed or anything like that.”

“They drugged you,” Rogers says carefully, “strapped you down, and impregnated you without your consent.”

Brock laughs, quiet and embarrassed. “When you put it like _that_...” Rogers sure has a way of making things sound _bad_. Brock shoves his hands back through his hair. He presses his lips together. “But, I mean, I basically did consent; when you sign up with Hydra, they _own_ you from that moment on. You don't get to say no. You had your chance.”

“Brock,” Steve says quietly, “that's bullshit.” And Barnes is nodding and even fucking Wilson is nodding—because, of course, they _don't understand_. Even Barnes doesn't understand, because Hydra never gave _him_ a choice at all. Brock had a choice. He had a fucking choice and he made a fucking bad one. All things considered, he's a hell of a lot better off than he could have been. At least he's out now; at least he's free. Maybe he can manage to stay free long enough that the baby will be born free and away from Hydra. It's a nice dream, anyway.

o0o

Rogers and Barnes have an actual argument, granted with very few _words_ and consisting primarily of angry looks and mild shoving, over who's going to sleep nearest the door. It might have gone on all night if not for Wilson saying, “So help me, I will turn this car _around_ ,” which prompts awkward sheepishness from both supersoldiers, and they eventually compromise to share the bed nearest the door with Steve being on the side closest to it—and his shield propped against the bed within easy reach. Which leaves Wilson to share the other bed with Brock. It's a little awkward, sure, but it's not like they actually have to touch each other.

Brock tosses and turns, though, barely dozing, and sometime around two am Wilson asks, “Little one keeping you up?”

Brock shakes his head in the darkness. The baby's been active, sure, but it's not that at all. He keeps expecting Hydra to burst in, and even though he knows logically that anyone Hydra could send in at this point would likely be no fucking match whatsoever for the combined forces of Captain America and the Winter Soldier, cold dread still coils in his gut. But before he can think of anything to say—and Wilson might have missed the head-shake—Barnes speaks up from across the shadowy chasm between the beds, voice low, “If they come for anyone, Rumlow, it'll be me.”

Steve rolls over, mumbling grumpily, “And we'll fight them _off_. No one's goin' back t' Hydra.”

“Sorry,” Brock mumbles, meaning to apologize for waking everyone up, but then he's suddenly and powerfully hit with how stupid it is to say 'sorry' to any of these guys, and he can't speak, can barely even _breathe_. When he comes back to himself, he's hunched over his belly, fingers digging painfully into his thighs. Wilson is speaking softly, telling him where he is, and Barnes is sitting on the edge of the other bed watching him, cloaked in gentle concern. Even Rogers is watching, on his side, propped up on one elbow, partly-shadowed face all sincere sympathy, and Brock just can't take it. Standing up, he snarls that he has to use the bathroom and tries not to slam the door too roughly behind him. They're just all so quick, so eager to paint him as a victim. As—as some fucking _damsel_ in _distress_ for the three noble knights to rescue.

He hasn't worn a dress since his dad's fourth wedding; Brock was six and he'd intentionally spilled mustard all over it at the reception then run outside and rolled in the dirt. His new stepmother hadn't been pleased—that dress had cost over a hundred dollars and matched her bridesmaids', all pale green and _shimmery_ —and she'd told his dad it was his fault he was raising 'a tomboy' because men didn't know how to raise girls properly. Well, fuck her. And fuck his dad too. Fuck them all, really. But now, for a brief moment he considers just going with it: getting a long dress and one of those tall conical hats with a filmy whatever-the-hell hanging from the top. He's pregnant anyway, might as well embrace his fucking biology. (Because everyone knows biology dictates that women must wear skirts.)

He's sobbing, leaning over the sink, and he can't make himself fucking _stop_ , so he finally hauls off and punches the mirror, breaking it. The sting of the glass is almost hot where it cuts his knuckles. At least he's stopped sobbing, though the tears still flow in salty pathetic little trails down his cheeks. He can't fucking see, but he has to fumble for the doorknob to unlock it and let in a very worried Steve.

Brock must mumble another apology, because Steve keeps saying things like 'it's all right' and 'you'll be okay' even though it's clearly _not_ and he really never _will_ be. But he sits on the closed toilet and lets Steve bandage his wound, and his whole body feels sort of numb but also like there's little bits of ice right under the skin, and after a while he realizes maybe he's in shock. And maybe Steve thinks so too, because he's leading him back out to sit on the bed and wrapping a spare blanket from the top of the closet around his shoulders and reminding him to _breathe_ of all things.

Brock swats Steve away, even though Steve wasn't technically touching him, and growls, “I'm _fine_.”

“All right,” Steve says, despite the obviousness of the lie, then disappears back into the bathroom, presumably to clean up the worst of the broken glass before anyone else gets hurt.

Barnes sits down next to Brock and says quietly, “Steve means well.” Brock has to laugh, broken and a little wet, because Steve _always_ means well. Even when he's smacking you in the face with his shield. But Brock's suddenly so damn _tired_ , and he almost nods off sitting up before Barnes says, “Go on, lie down,” and gets out of the way so Brock can do just that.

As he curls up on his side, head sinking gratefully into the overly-puffy pillow, Brock whispers, “Thanks.” He's not even sure who exactly he's talking to. It probably doesn't matter. He's kind of a little thankful to them all.

o0o

“I guess I can't say my mom never did anything for me,” Brock comments as he climbs back into the car and refastens his seat belt after yet another bathroom break—he never really noticed how often he needed that when he had a toilet right in his cell, “now that I'm experiencing pregnancy first hand.” They're headed...somewhere. He didn't really ask. Considering the company, it's likely _away_ from Hydra, so that's good enough for him for now.

As they pull back out onto the freeway, the baby kicks Brock in the ribs. “Ow.” He laughs a bit, rubbing his side—his knuckles itch under the bandage, but Steve said it looked like it was healing well when he changed the dressing that morning. Actually, the itching probably means exactly that: that it's healing. Steve put some sort of antibiotic ointment stuff on it, so that probably helps. But the kick to his ribs doesn't really hurt much, just surprises him—baby's kicked him in the bladder before, but ribs are a new one. At least from the inside.

Barnes is eyeing him curiously. “All right?”

“Yeah, just...” Brock can't help grinning. “Little one's practising some high kicks.”

Barnes nods, and Wilson says from the passenger seat, “I've heard of cases where people got their ribs broken by babies in the womb,” and the way he doesn't quite pause before saying 'people' means he probably went over that sentence in his head first.

“Thanks,” Brock says, rolling his eyes at him in the rear-view mirror, “that really helps me feel all reassured and shit.” Wilson laughs, unrepentant—yet somehow still all warm and kind, like some sort of amalgamation of a fuzzy blanket straight out of the dryer and a cup of steaming chicken soup. It must be nice, actually, to be friends with a guy like Wilson. If there _are_ even guys like Wilson. Other than Wilson himself.

“How—?” Barnes starts then asks, “Do you know how far along you are?”

Scrubbing his fingers though the hair on the back of his head, Brock blows out a breath through his lips. “No, not really. Things got pretty fuzzy with the recovery from the—um, you guys might not even know about how I got burned and shit?” Barnes shakes his head, eyes betraying concern, so Brock clarifies, “In the Triskelion, after you—” He nods to Wilson. “Got out. One of the Helicarriers crashed into it while I was still in there, and anyway, long story short: Hydra operatives pulled me out of the wreckage burned all to hell. It's a wonder I didn't die from the shock alone.” He shrugs, grimacing. “But I guess they pumped enough antibiotics into me to prevent any infections.” He pulls up the sleeve of his hoodie to show them the scars. (Wilson did a bit of shopping earlier that morning, picking up a few pairs of loose drawstring pants and several oversized hoodies—plus a pair of sneakers that fit surprisingly well for Brock not actually having tried them on—because the last thing any of them need is to draw attention to the group for having a pregnant man in their midst. Barnes always keeps his metal arm covered and wears gloves when they're outside too.) The scars are still all mottled, still lumpy and puckered, still a little shiny in places. “It's basically as healed as it's gonna get, but I look like shit.”

“You look fine, Brock,” Steve insists, but isn't he supposed to be driving rather than looking at scars?

“Hey, eyes on the road, Rogers,” Brock shoots back. And what would Rogers know about it, anyway? Sure, he's an artist, but artists like stupid shit like plastic bags dancing in the wind and melting clocks and wilting flowers...and _Campbell's soup cans_. Brock would rather get some hungry glances from hot girls. Maybe a few from hot guys. Or even sad old frumpy overweight housewives, because hungry glances are hungry glances: they mean he's attractive. He wants people to check out his ass, not _appreciate_ him like one of Picasso's studies in the grotesque. He pulls his sleeve back down to his wrist. He doesn't need Steve Rogers' pity, and he certainly doesn't need him itching to draw his _fascinating_ scars.

(It's a strange bit of something almost resembling mercy that Hydra fixed up his face so well while leaving his arms like this. At least he can hide his arms easily enough. But why even bother with the face? Maybe Brock should have asked the scientist in change before he killed her. Maybe he should have asked her a lot of things first; he wasn't really thinking clearly at the time.)

“Anyway...” He's supposed to be answering a question. “I have no idea how long any of that took, 'cause it's not like they told me what day it was or anything.” And for the most part, he'd been too drugged out of his skull to care.

He doesn't even know what day it is, what month it is, or even what state they're in—maybe he should be reading road signs or something. “What, uh—” He clears his throat. “What's the date today, anyway?” Steve tells him, and Brock has to just let it sink in for a while. It's over two years since the whole Insight thing went to hell. Over _two_ _year_ _s_ that he's been held prisoner by Hydra—or, rogue Hydra, or whatever they were. Brock shakes his head. “Well, I've got no idea—I'm no expert on pregnancy.”

“None of us are,” Wilson comments, one side of his lips tipping up in a sympathetic smirk. “But, just guessing here, I'd say you're probably at least five or six months along. And...speaking of experts, you're going to need a doctor pretty soon.”

Brock bites the inside of his lip. Wilson's right, of course, but Brock's not too excited to let any sort of medial professional poke and prod at him—even if he wasn't a pregnant trans man likely to throw the vast majority of doctors into a state of awkward discomfort if they didn't just refuse treatment outright. “You had someone in mind?”

“What about Banner?” Steve asks, eyes flicking up once to the rear-view mirror. “He's a doctor, and a good one as I understand it.”

“He's with Stark,” Barnes points out. He glances sideways at Brock. “Do we want to bring Stark into this?”

Grimacing, Steve shakes his head. “I don't know. I guess...I mean, I'd like to avoid that.” He sighs. “He's got a lot of resources, and I know he means well, but...”

“You don't trust him,” Wilson finishes.

Steve laughs a little awkwardly. “I guess I don't trust easy.”

“He's just not exactly trustworthy,” Barnes puts in. “Too interested in drinking and parties and being in the spotlight.” He looks sideways at Brock again. “We need someone with a bit more subtlety.”

“Someone who understands the meaning of the word would be a good start,” Steve snarks, and Brock can't help grinning. He's never met Tony Stark himself, but he certainly does have a certain image in the media, an image he keeps perpetuating. And no, it's not exactly the sort of person Brock would want in any way connected to his life or the life of his child.

“I don't suppose we could go through Hill and Potts and avoid Stark altogether?” Steve tries, grin suggesting he doesn't exactly think this is a viable option.

“If subtlety's what you're after,” Wilson suggests, “what about Romanoff? She's a spy, right? And good at it. Maybe she knows something or someone who could help us out.” Because apparently there's an 'us' now.

Steve glances up, meeting Brock's eyes in the rear-view mirror. “I can leave your name out of it, Brock. I'm, uh—” He clears his throat. “I'm not going to tell anyone you're trans, but I guess whatever doctor we get will _have_ to know.”

Pressing his lips together and twisting them unhappily, Brock shrugs, scratching his arm through the soft material of his hoodie. “I can't say I'm comfortable letting the whole world know about the trans thing, but right now I gotta think about the baby, gotta make sure it's okay, and for that...well, I need a doctor.” He shrugs again, grimacing. “But if Romanoff finds out it's me who needs a doctor, she might come herself and put a bullet in my brain.”

Steve immediately insists, “Natasha wouldn't do that,” but maybe Steve doesn't know his friend as well as he thinks he does. Or maybe Brock doesn't know her as well as _he_ thinks _he_ does. Does anyone _really know_ Romanoff? That's sort of her whole _thing_ , after all. She would have done _really well_ in Hydra. “But,” Steve adds, “I'll leave your name out of it.” He pauses, meets Brock's eyes once more in the mirror. “So far, no one outside of this vehicle knows you're with us.” And that's not really the sort of tactical information you should give your enemy. And Steve probably _knows_ that. Or at least, he damn well should. Brock resists the urge to roll his eyes. It's probably Steve's way of trying to say he's giving Brock the second chance he really doesn't deserve.

“You tell her you're looking for a _pregnancy_ doctor, she's gonna get suspicious,” Brock points out.

“Hey, most general practitioners do the whole prenatal-maternity thing,” Wilson points out helpfully. “You probably don't _need_ to tell her what we need a doctor _for_.”

The problem's gonna be getting a doctor who won't turn right around and run away when they find out what they're dealing with.

o0o

“No, Nat, Bucky's fine,” Steve says into his phone as he paces in the small motel room—again they've got just one room with two queens. “Why don't I just—?” Steve hands the phone to Barnes who's already reaching for it.

“Natasha,” Barnes says, putting the phone to his ear. “Yes, I'm _fine_. That's not why we need a doctor.” He glances at Brock where he's sitting on the edge of one of the beds. “Well, it's not exactly an _emergency_ at this point...” He looks at Brock again then shoots a questioning look at Steve. “But it's sort of urgent...” After a brief conversation between the supersoldiers that consists entirely of looking into each other's eyes, Barnes hands the phone back.

“Nat?” Steve tries once the phone's back against his ear. “We'd rather not involve Stark if we can avoid it, so that's why we're asking you.” He's quiet for a moment, and then he grins and says, “I know; that's why I'm not lying.” Another pause. “I'd think you'd be proud of me...well, how'm I gonna _get_ any better at it if I don't get any practice?” There's a much longer pause where Steve makes soft affirmative sounds and then Steve's eyes widen and brows raise and he says, “She's really a nurse?” He lets out a quiet huff, scrubbing his fingers through the short hair on the back of his head. “Yeah...no, that makes sense. Of course.” He glances at Brock. “I'll call you back.”

Pocketing his phone, Steve sits down next to Brock, turned slightly towards him. “There's a nurse,” he says, “she was a SHIELD Agent and now she's with the CIA.” He grimaces. “It's not exactly what we need, but it's the best Nat can do for us right now—she can probably get us a doctor, but it'll take a while, and...well, I figure you should probably see someone sooner rather than later.” He lets out a breath. “But it's up to you.”

Brock rubs his palms together, grimacing thoughtfully. If she was a SHIELD Agent, it's possible Brock met her. “This nurse have a name?”

Steve twists his lips into something like a meld of a grimace and a grim smile. “While she was with SHIELD she went by 'Agent 13'.”

Brock's shaking his head before he can even consider a response. “She'd put a bullet in my brain, Cap. I literally tried to kill her during Insight—there's no way she'd help me.”

“Hey!” Wilson pipes up from where he's sprawled on the other bed. “I resent that remark.” Rolling onto his side, he gives Brock a considering look. “ _Some_ of us are capable of change, growth even. Some of us even believe in second chances.”

Brock shakes his head again. He didn't have a choice in if he trusted Wilson or not, in if he trusted any of them—they had guns to his head, and he'd begged for the life of the baby in his womb. That's not going to work on everyone.

“Brock.” Steve puts his hand on Brock's arm, gripping just tight enough to be reassuring. “We wouldn't _let_ her hurt you.”

And Brock kinda wants to hug him, but he hasn't earned that right. Never _will_ earn that right. So he just takes a shaky breath, wrestling back the tears that burn his eyes. Of course Steve and Barnes could protect him from _one_ agent, and of course they would. But... “She'd— She might not even say anything to us, might act like everything's cool but then go back to Romanoff, go back to the CIA, tell anyone and everyone what she found out.” He might even end up on the news. He shudders at the thought.

Steve squeezes his arm. “Are you cold? Do you need a blanket, or...?”

Brock shakes his head, swallows. “Look, Cap...Rogers.” He presses his lips together, kneads at the sore muscles in his neck. “I can't stop you from calling in anyone you like—reporting me directly to whoever's in SHIELD right now—but if it really is up to me, I'm asking you not to.”

And Steve just says, “All right,” as if that's the end of it. They'll find someone else. It's important that Brock be comfortable, after all. Brock focuses on his breathing to keep himself from dissolving into hysterics, to keep himself from crying—again. He curls up on his side with his head on the pillow and doesn't object when Rogers lays a blanket over him. “Just so you know,” Rogers says—he's still sitting near Brock, watching over him, “we don't report to SHIELD at all.”

Brock frowns. “Then who do you report to?”

Wilson points at Steve. “We follow him. _He_ doesn't follow anybody, doesn't report to anybody.” Barnes is nodding, and none of them looks or sounds like they're lying. “Cap doesn't approve of SHIELD being rebuilt,” Wilson explains. “He wanted it all gone, but they were back in the headlines in a matter of months.” He tilts his head, grimacing a little. “We don't go after them, don't try to tell them to cease and desist, but we don't ask for their help either—we just leave them alone.”

Steve's looking down at his lap, but he raises his head when he says, “For now.” A shiver goes down Brock's spine at something in his voice. He'd really rather not be anyone in any way associated with the new SHIELD if they step out of line enough to get back on Cap's radar. But then...he's sort of in the same room with Steve, sort of travelling with Steve. Somehow managed to get himself a tentative second chance. It's not anywhere he would have chosen to be, but... It's okay. It's surprisingly _okay_. For now.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a cis woman, I fully admit I'm not “writing what I know” here (much as when I write from the pov of any male character). I have, however, given birth (twice), so in that way I do understand some of Brock's experiences in this story.
> 
> Notes on characters and canon:  
> This story is (obviously) canon-divergent. It is not meant to be exactly “compliant” with anything in the MCU or other Marvel canon.  
> 'Agent 13' aka Sharon Carter appears in 'Captain America: The Winter Soldier'.  
> The Hydra doctor is an OC.


	2. Chapter 2

They're working their way through a pile of assorted pastries from a local bakery, dropping crumbs all over the bedspreads and carpet, when Wilson says, “If it came right down to it, sort of a last resort kinda thing, I could probably do it, Brock—deliver the baby, I mean.” Brock shoots him a confused look, but Wilson clarifies, “I was Pararescue. So long as things go pretty smooth, and...well.” He drops his eyes to the cheese scone in his hands. “It'd help if you didn't need a caesarean.”

Crumpling a napkin in his hand, Brock shakes his head slowly, not meeting any of their eyes. “No _inherent_ reason I should need a caesarean.” It's really none of _any_ of their business what his genitals look like...except, it kind of is. In this case. Right now. Because if he needed a caesarean that'd complicate the situation even further. At least as it stands, there's a chance of him delivering naturally. Assuming 'naturally' could even be applied to _anything_ in the situation.

Wilson lets out a breath, relieved and awkward all at once. “That's...um...”

“It's _good_ ,” Brock finishes for him. “Less fucking complicated for everyone.”

Barnes looks at Steve then back at Brock and Wilson. “So is this an option we're considering?”

Steve clears his throat. “The final decision should be up to Brock; it's his body, his birth, his baby.” Is Steve doing that on purpose? Trying to see how many male pronouns he can shove into a sentence about Brock's pregnancy?

Shaking his head, Brock lets out a sigh, shoulders drooping. “I just want the baby to be safe. As safe as possible, considering I don't know what might be screwed up—intentionally or otherwise.” He looks up, hesitantly meeting Steve's gaze. “If you think your friend Banner is a good doctor—and one that's delivered babies before...”

“Yeah, um,” Wilson cuts in, “I've never actually _done_ it, for the record. Got the training, but that was it. _I'd_ be more comfortable having Banner do it, and with real medical equipment available if necessary and all that.”

Steve nods at Brock. “Banner's delivered a few babies, yeah. Mostly in Kolkata, I think.” Then he shrugs. “Maybe all in Kolkata; I'm not sure he's actually got a licence to practice medicine here. Or, I guess, anywhere? But he's good; he knows what he's doing.”

Barnes shoots Brock a sharp look. “But, Rumlow, you'd rather not bring Stark in?”

Resting his forearms on his knees and hanging his head, Brock nods, letting out a breath. “Yeah.” On his personal list of 'things he'd rather not do' letting Tony fucking Stark know he's trans and pregnant is pretty near the top. Which might show how screwed up his priorities are, but whatever. “Rather not.”

“I don't suppose we could call Banner in without saying why we need him?” Wilson tries, shooting Steve a half-serious grin.

Steve grimaces. “If we had to, yeah. But Tony'd want to know. He's nosey.”

“And he's sneaky,” Barnes adds. “If Banner was heading out on some secret thing, Tony could have him bugged or followed and Banner probably wouldn't even know about it.”

Brock throws the crumpled napkin at the wastebasket and it bounces out to land defiantly on the dingy beige carpet. “Okay, but...he's also the Hulk, right? I mean, that's cool and all, but he's not exactly _safe_ by most definitions.”

Steve hangs his head for a moment. Looking up, he meets Brock's gaze. “I don't know what to tell you, Brock. _I_ trust Bruce; I know he's a good man and he'd never hurt you or your baby on purpose.”

“But the Hulk might by accident,” Barnes says, squeezing Steve's knee with his metal hand. He grimaces. “I don't see that we have any good options here.” And if that isn't just the most accurate summation of Brock's entire fucking _life_.

o0o

Brock hasn't been paying much attention to road signs, but by mid-morning they seem to be getting farther and farther away from population centres and aren't even on a main freeway anymore, so he asks, “Where are we going?”

“My uncle's got a cabin,” Wilson explains, glancing at Brock in the rear-view mirror as he drives. “It's pretty out of the way, and I figure it's as good a place as we've got right now to just rest and regroup and all that. Not many locals to notice four strange guys, and those that do will prob'ly think we're just fishing or whatever.”

Brock nods. That'd be why they picked up so many groceries that morning, if they're planning on settling in somewhere for a while. Brock just stayed in the car; he didn't much feel like wandering around a supermarket if he didn't have a really good reason, and Steve and Wilson seem happy enough to do all the outside interactions for the small group. It's easier that way.

o0o

The cabin only has two bedrooms, and it's probably supposed to look like trust when Steve and Barnes decide to bunk together leaving Brock with their non-supersoldier buddy. But it still feels like acknowledging just how little they believe he'd currently be capable of strangling the other man in his sleep. He was the leader of a fucking STRIKE team, and now he's just...pathetic. He's nothing. No one.

He tries to avoid looking at himself in the mirror, but he has to _feel_ his body when he's in the shower, and he's just so damn _soft_. Of course he lost most of his muscle mass recovering from his injuries—and it's not like he got decent physical therapy or even decent _food_ —but his hips are rounder and more womanish than they've _ever_ been. And he can't go back on the HRT yet, and that's the main problem, because the worst part is the damn belly: swelling outward, all round like he'd swallowed a soccer ball. Like it _belongs_ there in the middle of his body, throwing off his centre of gravity. Mother Nature imperiously reminding him what his female parts were meant to do.

He bumps his hip on the corner of the small square table while trying to get up after a dinner where everyone tried with various levels of subtlety to get him to eat right now that they're eating real food rather than takeout. Of course they're worried about _his_ health and not just the baby's, but why should that make him feel better? He was the one who said he wanted to see this pregnancy through, that he wanted the baby to be safe. He doesn't need this whole fucking White Knight routine, three times over. Never wanted anyone to be his champion.

Three pairs of concerned eyes swivel towards him as he curses viciously, hands braced against the tabletop. “You all right?” Wilson asks at the same time Steve's saying, “Brock?” and reaching out a hand to steady him.

Roughly slapping Steve's hand away and grimacing, Brock takes a deep breath. “I'm just...fat. So fucking _fat_ ,” he snarls then glares at each one in turn and adds, “If one of you says, 'You're not fat; you're pregnant,' I will punch you in the face.” His shoulders slump as he lets out a breath. “And probably hurt my fucking hand, and we don't want that?” He tries for a self-deprecating smile then slumps back into his chair. He's just so fucking _weak_ now. He can't even blame it on the lack of testosterone in his system, because he's been able to throw a pretty decent punch since he was twelve. But he's just so light-headed most of the time now. And _shaky_ too. And in retrospect it probably wasn't the best idea to impregnate his body when it had barely started to recover from the whole Insight clusterfuck, but it's not like he had a chance to object. It's not like he had any idea that's what she was doing. It's not like he was coherent enough to form words. It's not like anyone would have listened to his objections anyway. Steve and his buddies have some weird ideas about consent and free choice and personal autonomy and all that, but once you sign your life away to Hydra they _own_ you. He's just lucky they never decided to strap him into the chair and rip everything out of his mind like they did to Barnes.

Except, with some things, it might have been a mercy.

Wilson lets out a breath and shakes his head once. “Not to be all contrary, man, but I think you're actually _under_ weight.”

Brock rubs his palms over his face. “Okay, whatever; you're the medical professional here. But I _feel_ fat.” He grimaces, shaking his head. “I've never felt like this before; hell, even when I had boobs, they were small—I mean, I didn't _like_ them, but I knew I could have been a lot worse off in that area. And I was always muscled and toned and shit, 'cause I did a lot of weightlifting and whatever.” He shrugs then shakes his head again. “It's...” He grimaces, letting out a breath. “I've always known I'll never really look right, being trans and all, but I kinda wanted to look good with clothes _on_ at least.”

“Brock,” Steve says leaning forward in his seat and radiating sincerity, all angelic, like a halo, “you do look good.”

Snorting, Brock rolls his eyes, pushing his chair back and keeping his hand on the corner of the table while he stands up, so he doesn't actually bump into the table this time. “ _Not_ being attractive to straight guys is sort of what I've been working towards my whole life, Rogers.” Steve probably mean it in an 'I'm an artist and I'd like to draw you' way, but _still_.

Brock's halfway to the couch when Barnes speaks up. “What makes you think Steve's straight?”

Turning back, Brock frowns at him in confusion. What a stupid question, really. “He's Captain fucking America; of course he's straight. Truth, justice, goodness, bravery, heteronormativity—it's all part of the squeaky-clean package.” Barnes actually _rolls his eyes_. Steve looks _offended_. And Wilson's got this little smile like he _knows_ something and finds the whole situation so damn amusing. Letting out an exasperated breath, Brock sits down on the couch. “What the fuck? You're not going to try to tell me he's gay, because what about Peggy Carter—or was that just some act?”

“Brock,” Steve says gently, and he's doing that thing again where he radiates sincerity like a goddamned halo, “I'm _bi_. We didn't call it that back in the day, but...”

“I'm bi too.” Barnes grins crookedly, taking Steve's hand. His grin broadens. “There's a _reason—_ a very _good_ reason—” His eyes spark with pleased mischief. “—Steve and I are bunking together.” And Steve fucking _blushes_ , shooting Barnes this unbelievably tender look like he's the fucking _world_ , and Brock can't figure out how the hell he missed _that_. Captain America is in love with Bucky Barnes. Captain America is _fucking_ Bucky Barnes. Everything Brock has ever known is a huge fucking _lie_.

“Since we're sharing,” Wilson says, “I'm actually bi as well.”

Brock squeezes his eyes shut. Fine. _Fine_. What-the-fuck-ever. “We might as well be a fucking LGBT support group,” he grumbles.

“I actually ran the one at my high school,” Wilson says. Because of course he did.

o0o

That night when Brock comes to bed, Wilson's got his laptop open on his lap, which isn't exactly noteworthy. What _is_ noteworthy is the fact that he's looking at pictures of women giving birth. In kiddie pools. Kiddie pools in the middle of living rooms. Brock raises an eyebrow about the same time Wilson looks up. “This some hobby of yours, Wilson?” Brock asks.

Smiling, Wilson shakes his head. “Not exactly. Just figured I should do some research in case I happen to end up needing to play midwife.” His expression grows more serious. “Did you know that studies have shown it's actually _safer_ for people with low-risk pregnancies to deliver at home rather than in a hospital? Better overall outcomes for everyone involved.”

Brock settles down on his side of the bed. “Not sure I'd qualify as 'low-risk', but okay. I mean, I guess that's good to know, considering how most people seem to think home birth is the equivalent of playing Russian Roulette while juggling live grenades and swimming in a shark tank wearing Lady Gaga's meat dress.”

Wilson grins. “Yeah, it looks like it's not that dangerous at all, provided you have a qualified midwife—which, I suppose I should point out, I'm _not_ exactly. But I _do_ know how to deliver a baby. In theory, anyway.”

Brock gestures towards the screen. “And you're reading up on it.”

“That I am.” Wilson's smile is warm. “There's tons of information available for pain management without medication—and how the, uh, biologically female body is fully capable of delivering a baby in the vast majority of cases with _no_ interventions of any kind.” He taps his fingers against the edge of his laptop. “The midwife's just supposed to offer support and encouragement for the most part and step in _if_ there's a problem that needs to be addressed.”

Brock nods slowly, thinking. “I guess that makes sense. I mean, most animals in the wild don't need doctors to help them when they're giving birth. Don't bears do it in their sleep or something?”

Wilson shrugs. “I think I heard something like that.” He pulls up the Wikipedia article on black bears and reads for a bit with Brock reading over his shoulder. “Huh. Looks like they might not exactly be _asleep_ , but they do give birth while in hibernation.” He pulls up the page on grizzly bears as well and reads the sections there for hibernation and reproduction as well. “So yeah. I guess you were right, or at least close to right.” He shrugs.

Brock's mind is caught on how both pages describe the mother bears sustaining their young on their milk during hibernation. He suppresses the urge to rub at his flat chest. It's not like he'd be the first parent to give their kid a bottle, either by choice or necessity. But wasn't there at least one trans man who made his own headlines because he was breastfeeding his baby and got told, 'No boys allowed!' by the local breastfeeding moms? Clearly, he'd kept _his_ breasts as well as his uterus. Maybe Brock should look that up sometime, just to see how that all worked. Not that he actually has a computer or anything, but maybe one of the others would let him use theirs?

And not like there's much point, really, since Brock can't exactly ask some doctor to give him his breasts back. If he even wanted them. Which he really, really doesn't.

Wilson's back to reading about weighing babies in cloth slings or something, so Brock asks, “Is this the sort of thing I should be reading about myself?”

“If you want,” Wilson responds, brown eyes kind as they meet Brock's. “It might help you to understand a bit of what to expect. For one thing, supposedly it _hurts_ more the more _afraid_ you are, and the more you _know_ , the _less_ afraid you'll be—in theory anyway.” One side of his lips tip upward. “And whatever way this goes, it's good to have information.”

Brock nods. It makes sense. Like a briefing before a mission, not just on what's expected, but on what might go wrong and ways to deal with problems that might arise. “It's always important to be prepared,” he says. Though, really, all his years with Hydra sort of dulled any fear he'd have of pain. He just wants to get through this with both he and the baby alive. (Or maybe just the baby; that's kind of the important part.)

Wilson nods and offers, “You can use my laptop—just ask.”

“Thanks.” For a guy who Brock once literally tried to kill, Wilson's pretty chill about...well, everything. “I think...” He yawns, then laughs, because it sort of proves his point: “I think I'm gonna go to sleep now.”

“Good idea.” Wilson closes his laptop and lays it aside. The only light in the room is filtering blue and pale through the curtains. “Hope you sleep well, buddy.”

Because, apparently they're buddies now. Brock just rolls over and closes his eyes, too tired to argue.

o0o

Brock's halfway through eating a slice of toast when Steve—who apparently ate half a loaf's worth of toast before Brock even got out of the shower—looks up from his computer and says, “So I've been looking at that information you got from the Hydra doctor.”

Brock nods, taking a sip of orange juice to cover his nervous desire to swallow. “And?”

Steve sighs, shaking his head. “There's not much here I can make heads or tails of. She seems to be writing in some kind of personal code, even for things like dates. Unless she just didn't bother including them.”

Wilson leans on the back of Steve's chair to look at the screen. “Wow.” He shakes his head.

Grimacing, Steve rests his folded arms on the table. “Yeah. I'm guessing she had more than one project running at once, and the files do seem to be organized to suggest that, but I don't even know which one would be you: there's nothing here that says 'pregnancy' or anything straightforward like that.”

One side of Brock's lips twitch in a sardonic smile. “So she was crazy.”

“Well.” Steve shrugs. “Probably. Though it's possible she also did a lot of this so no one else in Hydra would have any idea what she was up to.”

Leaning back in his chair, Brock shakes his head, sighing. “Guess I got a whole lot of nothing there.” He nods towards the flash drive where it's plugged into the side of Steve's computer.

“I don't know about that,” Steve says. “Someone smarter than me might be able to figure this out.”

“You wanna send it to Romanoff?” Wilson asks. Steve looks at Brock.

Brock shrugs. “Might as well.” It's not like he's mentioned by name. It's possible the doctor herself didn't even know his name. It's not like she needed a name for him—do scientists usually name their rats?

o0o

About a week after arriving at the cabin, Steve gets another call from Romanoff. “There's another nurse,” he explains to Brock, “one who never had any ties with SHIELD. Natasha says she's highly qualified, and apparently good at keeping secrets.”

Brock lets out a breath. “Okay, but...will she want anything to do with me?”

Steve hands him his phone. “I suppose you could ask her yourself.”

'Claire T', the screen says. Brock chews on his bottom lip. Well, he might as well—if she's got some actual experience with birthing, she's probably a better bet than Wilson, no matter how much research he's been doing. And most of the websites show people working in teams of two, anyway, so maybe he can have her _and_ Wilson. He makes the call.

“Hello?” the voice on the other end says.

“Hi, uh...” Brock scrubs his fingers through hair he probably should cut soon. “Claire T?”

“Who wants to know?” she replies.

“Uh, sorry.” Brock grimaces. “My name's Brock. I got this number from Romanoff—Natasha Romanoff.” He wonders if he should explain it's not actually his phone. “She said you're a nurse.”

“That much is true,” Claire replies, then sighs. “Do you need medical attention?”

“No—well, yes,” Brock answers, pressing a hand over his eyes, “but it's not urgent. Not exactly.”

“I'm guessing if you're getting my name from Romanoff,” Claire says, “there's a reason you're not going to a regular clinic or ER.”

Brock sighs. “A few,” he admits. He bites the inside of his cheek. “Look, I was Hydra—is that going to be a problem?” He'd rather get this out of the way first rather than have her walk out later. And maybe he didn't _really_ have to tell her, but...

“Hydra, huh?” Claire replies. “Is it gonna be a problem that I'm not white?”

And Brock can't even object to the question, because even though he didn't actually know when he signed up with Hydra, he knows _now_ that they used to be fucking Nazis back in the day. It makes sense that she'd assume he's probably racist. (Even though there are—or, were?—a few non-whites actually in Hydra.) He just says, “No,” glancing over at Wilson, “that's not going to be a problem.” He takes a breath and lets it out. Speaking of things that might be a problem... “I'm also trans.”

“Okay,” Claire says, and something in her voice makes Brock think maybe it really isn't going to be a problem.

But then he clarifies, “A trans guy, and I'm pregnant.”

And Claire lets out an audible breath, and he can't blame her if this has her worried. But her voice is calm when she says, “How far along are you?”

Brock sighs. “I don't really know. At least six months.” It's the best guess he and Wilson can make given the information they have.

“And were are you, currently?” Claire asks. “Your location?”

Brock still doesn't know, never bothered to ask. He looks at Steve for help. “She wants to know where we are.” Then he just hands the phone over, because it'll be easier that way.

“Hi,” Steve says, putting the phone up to his ear. “This is Steve, a friend of Natasha's. I've been trying to help my friend...”

Brock stops listening, because...Steve called him his 'friend'. Just said it so naturally. As if Brock hadn't thrown that friendship away for Hydra of all things. As if it had been real in the first place. Not just a lie, an act, part of Brock's cover.

Sitting down next to him on the couch, Barnes nudges Brock with his shoulder, startling him out of his thoughts. “You okay?”

Giving his head a quick shake, Brock hunches his shoulders and says, “Yeah, sure. Sorry.”

Barnes' shoulders twitch in a slight shrug. “Happens to me sometimes too, zoning out like that.” He glances from Steve, still talking on the phone, to Wilson, cutting up vegetables for dinner. “Guess it happens to us all.”

Brock flinches, just a little. Because... He's not like them. He's really not, and yet they keep trying to find common ground. Maybe—maybe they think they can convince him to be good by being his friends. He grimaces, looking down at where his right hand grasps his left wrist. The thing is...Steve and Barnes and Wilson are about thirty years too late. The best he could do now is put on a show, pretend: just like he did before. If he never _stops_ , though, maybe it'll be enough. At the very least, they deserve basic courtesy for putting up with him. “Yeah,” he says finally.

“So,” Steve says, tapping his phone against his thigh as he turns to face Brock. “She lives and works in Hell's Kitchen; it would be easier—for her, anyway—if we were to relocate to somewhere in that area. Especially since you're supposed to have somewhat regular visits before and after the birth.”

Brock nods. It makes sense. And as nice as their secluded cabin is, it'll be just as easy to blend into the population of a city. They actually did do a bit of fishing, though they didn't exactly have a licence as far as Brock could tell. And he couldn't actually stomach looking at the raw fish—stupidly annoying side effect of pregnancy, apparently. According to Wilson, anyway. (It still tasted good when it was cooked, though.)

“Isn't that where that one 'Devil' guy is?” Wilson asks, looking up from his cutting board. “The new superhero making the headlines. Brought down that Fisk guy.” Brock just stares blankly at him, because he has no idea.

But Steve says, “Yeah. Daredevil.” He looks down at his phone. “Maybe that's how Natasha knows this nurse.”

“You think Natasha knows the Daredevil?” Barnes asks, tilting his head skeptically.

One side of Steve's lips quirk up. “She might not do it for SHIELD anymore, but I'm sure she's keeping tabs on people like us.”

“Guess I need to catch up on some news,” Brock says, smiling wryly.

“Guess so,” Barnes agrees, bumping his shoulder against Brock's and smiling as if they're friends too.

What the fuck? Brock had just stood there and watched him be tortured. (But maybe he doesn't remember that.) Brock shakes his head, grimacing. “So we heading to Hell's Kitchen, then?”

“If that's what you want,” Steve says, calm and serious.

Brock grimaces, rubbing at his over-large belly. The skin is tight, often itchy—and of course, there are stretch marks. But it's not like he was ever going to look sexy with his clothes off, so what are a few purple-red stripes? Anyone seeing him naked will no doubt be unable to tear their gaze away from his incongruous genitals long enough to notice something like stretch marks. He shrugs. “Doubt we'll get a better offer.”

o0o

The Hell's Kitchen apartment is just a two bedroom. Which, well, isn't exactly a surprise, since it isn't exactly easy to find bigger apartments anywhere, and you can technically fit four people into a two bedroom with relative ease. As long as they don't have too much stuff. The biggest problem might end up being that there is only the one bathroom for the four of them, especially given how stupidly often Brock has to use it.

The building's kind of run down, but what could he expect from Hell's Kitchen? Sure, there are (much) nicer places there too, but they're also far more expensive and in far flashier areas—the four of them are trying to blend in, so they might as well pretend to be poor disabled veterans or something. Which, technically, they all kind of are? Sort of.

They're on the third floor, and they've got a tiny little balcony overlooking not much of anything. They can go out there and breathe some nice fresh smog if they like. (Maybe Brock misses the cabin more than he thought he would.) At least the building has an elevator, because Brock probably couldn't handle three flights of stairs...assuming he ever has reason to leave, that is. It's not like he's planning on making daily excursions to the public library or whatever. So maybe the creaky old elevator isn't that important after all. And besides, either Barnes or Rogers could just carry him up the three flights of narrow, musty stairs without breaking a sweat. They'd probably even fight each other over who got to do it, which would at least be amusing.

The apartment comes 'furnished' which means each bedroom has a queen size bed and a tiny dresser (in addition to a minimal closet), and the main kitchen-slash-living room area has a blue-grey couch, a metal table, and two battered wooden chairs. Even though the beds are plenty big for two adults apiece, the apartment's intended for two people, not four. “Guess we can pick up two more chairs somewhere,” Wilson says, surveying the scene.

Brock shrugs, poking the mildly worn corner of the couch with the toe of his sneaker. “If we're all eating at the same time, two of us could sit on the couch.”

Wilson shrugs as well as he unpacks the food they've brought from the cabin. “Could.” He makes a face as he checks the cupboards. “Gonna need to pick up a few pots and pans anyway, though.”

Steve leans back against the green-tiled counter, smiling lopsidedly at Sam. “We trust your judgement on all matters related to the kitchen. And food.”

Barnes grunts, flopping down on the couch. He flashes Steve a blithe grin. “Could just boil everything like we did back in the day.” Steve makes a face at him, and Barnes' grin only broadens.

Brock sinks down into one of the chairs. For being made entirely of unyielding wood, it's not exactly uncomfortable. “If I get a say in any of this, I vote we _don't_ 'just boil everything'.” Not only does that sound generally gross, but...how would it even work? Boiled eggs, boiled potatoes, sure. But boiled beef? His shudder might have something to do with pregnancy queasiness, but he's pretty sure he'd shudder anyway at that thought.

But maybe they didn't really have a lot of beef, anyway. Steve and Barnes are actually old enough to have lived through the Depression. Sometimes it's easy to forget that when they're stealing heavily-buttered popcorn from each other's bowls or eating an entire bucket of ice cream just between the two of them in a single sitting. But they weren't supersoldiers with increased metabolism in the 1930s. (Though Steve was _sick_ : asthma and anaemia and whatever the fuck else. The way Barnes tells it, he basically had every chronic condition known to man.)

Wilson flashes Brock a pleased grin. “Always good to have an ally,” he says.

“Hey!” Steve protests. He gestures with one hand while the other grips the edge of the counter. “I'm on your side too.”

Wilson laughs, leaning against the counter next to Steve and bumping their shoulders together. “I know.”

He shoots a glance at Barnes, who spreads his hands and says, “I'd be happy to just eat cookies and chocolate for the foreseeable future.” He smiles as though very pleased with this idea. “No cooking needed.”

Wilson makes a disgusted noise, waving a dismissive hand in Barnes' direction. “Yeah, I know you would. Twinkies, Oreos, Froot Loops out of the box...” He shakes his head, entirely disapproving.

Steve sighs, looking down at his feet for a moment before looking at Barnes. “Gotta eat meat sometimes, Buck.”

“That's what jerky's for.” Barnes stretches his long legs out over the dull grey carpet. “And those pepperoni sticks. Also—takeout hamburgers.”

Wilson rolls his eyes. “Gotta eat fruit and vegetables sometimes too.”

“Don't, actually,” Barnes says, sounding bored. “Not like I'm gonna get sick.”

“How about we don't test that theory?” Steve says before Wilson can formulate a properly aggravated protest.

“I seem to remember you eating three oranges in a single sitting,” Brock points out before he can remember that he's probably not meant to be part of this conversation, this easy bickering between friends.

But Barnes just snorts a laugh and concedes the point with a tilt of his head. “Oranges are nice. But I could live without them is all I'm saying.” And he has, of course. For most of his very long life. (And he didn't have an overflowing cornucopia of junk food for most of it either.)

Brock offers him a lopsided smile. “Not all of us are supersoldiers. And I gotta eat right for the little one.” He gestures to his belly.

Barnes' eyebrows draw together, and he leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Are you hungry right now? It's been—a while since we ate lunch.”

Brock sighs, running a hand over his face. He hadn't actually meant to steer the conversation onto himself and his _delicate_ condition. “I'm fine,” he grumbles.

“Okay,” Wilson says, sharing a quick glance with Steve, “but I'm just gonna make us all a snack before the hyper metabolism squad here start eating what furniture we have.”

The 'snack' turns out to be sliced apples, three different kinds of cheese, whole grain crackers, and raisins. Brock doesn't realize how hungry he is until he starts eating.

o0o

Barnes is washing the lunch dishes the following day when Claire knocks on the door. She texted Steve's phone to let them know she was on her way, and he's the one who pops up to let her in. “Hi, I'm Steve.” He shakes her hand.

She walks into the apartment, her eyes finding Brock where he's sprawled on the couch. She flashes him a smile. “You must be my patient.”

“Um, yeah.” Brock attempts to smile back, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck. He is the only pregnant man in the room, after all. And the oversize hoodie is doing very little to disguise the belly at the moment. “Brock.”

Claire sits down on the other end of the couch, sliding her bag off her shoulder and leaning it against the couch by her feet. “It's nice to meet you, Brock.”

“You ever deliver a baby before?” he asks. “I mean, by yourself, with no doctor or anything?”

Claire nods. “I think—seventeen times so far.” She tilts her head to one side. “All but one was in a hospital, so there were doctors around, but babies tend to be born on their own schedules, which is often faster than doctors expect.”

Brock nods as well. That's pretty typical of doctors, expecting their patients to wait. “So, uh, the one that wasn't in a hospital...?”

Claire smiles, lacing her fingers together on her knees. “A woman in my building. She came and banged on my door when I was asleep. She had no one to drive her to the hospital, no phone. Her water had already broken, and she was scared, but she knew I was a nurse and that I spoke Spanish—she barely spoke any English herself. I called nine-one-one for her, but the baby was born on my kitchen floor before the EMTs got there. She tried to apologize for the mess, but I've had to clean up far worse at work.” She smiles again, warm and bright. “We made quite a pair, the two of us, both in our nightgowns, covered in blood and amniotic fluid when I let the EMTs in. But the mom and baby were both fine.”

“That's some story she can tell her kid one day.” Brock can't help smiling just a bit. “Had one friend growing up who's mom had him in a toilet.”

Claire nods, not even looking surprised. “That happens more often than you might expect; I've even had a mom do it at the hospital.” Glancing around the room, she asks, “Would you rather have your checkup somewhere private?

Brock waves one hand in a dismissive gesture. “Nah.” Then he smiles lopsidedly. “Well, maybe if I need to get naked.”

“I don't think we'll have to do that today,” Claire says, shaking her head just once. A lock of her black hair swings next to her face.

Brock nods, but he sort of feels like shrugging. They're probably all going to see him naked when the baby's born anyway, unless Steve and Barnes are away beating up some Hydra goons or something. “Oh, by the way.” He motions towards Wilson where he's still sitting at the table—he'd been chatting with Steve before Steve got up to answer the door. “This, is, uh...”

“Sam,” Wilson says, walking over and extending a hand to Claire which she shakes.

“Sam was Pararescue,” Brock explains.

Claire smiles brightly at Wilson. “So you know a little bit about this yourself.”

Wilson nods, sliding his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Part of our emergency training, just in case, but it's not something that really came up a lot.”

“I, uh.” Brock grimaces, scrubbing his fingers through the hair on the back of his head. “If possible, I'd like Sam to be there when I give birth.” He hasn't actually asked Wilson, but Wilson actually did agree to deliver the baby as a last resort, so maybe that's enough?

Wilson just smiles, pulling a chair over near the couch and straddling it. “I'd be happy to help in any way I can.”

Claire's smile broadens. “It would be great to have the second pair of hands, Sam.” Turning to Brock, she adds, “Having a good support system is important, not just for the actual birth, but before and after as well.”

“Yeah.” Brock glances awkwardly from Wilson to where Steve and Barnes are leaning against the kitchen counter, watching. Barnes is done the dishes, so he's pulled his sleeve back down and stuck his metal hand in his pocket—maybe Claire hasn't seen it; maybe she doesn't yet know who he is. “I guess—” Running a hand back through his hair, he blows out a breath through his lips. “I guess I have one of those.”

Wilson grins, resting his folded arms on top of the back of the chair. “We try.”

“Sam's actually been reading—doing a lot of reading up online,” Brock explains. “About birth, and home birth, specifically.”

“That's great,” Claire says, eyes bright and a pleased note in her voice. “Because I've done a bit of reading myself, but my one experience with home birth—well, as I explained, it was neither planned nor typical.”

Wilson chuckles, ducking his head briefly. “But it was still overall a positive experience.”

Claire looks a little surprised. “I guess it was, after all, yeah.” Turning to Brock, she bends down, reaching into her bag. “Can I take your blood pressure?”

Brock nods, shrugging out of his hoodie to give her access to his arm. “That's uh—” He gestures to the scars on his arm. “I got burned pretty badly about two years ago.”

Claire nods, unconcerned, as she fastens the cuff around his arm. She's a nurse, after all; she's probably seen far worse. After ascertaining that his blood pressure is fine and making note of it, she slips the cuff back into her bag, leaving the stethoscope looped around her neck. “Well,” she says, smiling bright and a little awkward, “I assume it's useless to ask for the date of your last menstrual period.”

Brock laughs dryly. “Yeah, when I was about seventeen? But it wasn't even regular at that time, anyway. I always hated getting it, so I'd do a lot of exercise to try to make it stop—it didn't always work, of course.” He shrugs. “But all the exercise did have the upside of me getting some pretty good muscles, so it was still worth it.” At least he hadn't been fat or...soft. Just after a basketball game once, he had a guy sneer at him and tell him he 'looked like a dude'. Dumbass didn't realize that was the _idea_.

“Most people don't like getting periods,” Claire says with a sympathetic smile. “They're certainly not the highlight of _my_ month. But of course, I imagine it would be even less pleasant for you...” She grimaces, a rougher edge to the sympathy in her eyes.

Brock shrugs. “Yeah, I guess.” He can't imagine how even women could like it much. Or at all. He chews on the inside of his bottom lip. “You ever encountered a pregnant man before?”

Claire shakes her head. “I met a pregnant agender person once, though.” Brock nods, though he admittedly doesn't know much about agender people other than knowing the basic definition (which is kind of obvious just from the word itself). He glances at Steve and Barnes who both have entirely expected confused looks on their faces, but neither says anything, and Claire continues, “They came in needing IV fluids—really bad case of morning sickness.” She looks down, shrugging. “I wasn't on shift when they delivered, though.” She flashes him a smile. “I hope you don't mind my lack of specific experience.”

Brock shrugs. “It's fine.” It's not like pregnant men are exactly common.

Claire's eyes narrow slightly as she looks at Brock. “Have you had any problems with morning sickness yourself?”

He shrugs again. “I've felt pretty nauseous, uh, I guess a lot of the time—but I haven't thrown up at all.”

Claire nods. “That's good.” She flashes him a smile again. “It's never fun to throw up.” She shifts slightly on the couch, turning to face him more fully. “Have you felt the baby moving?”

“Yeah.” Brock lets out a quiet laugh as he scrubs his fingers through his hair. “Likes to kick me in the bladder a lot. And the ribs.”

Claire nods, her smile a little lopsided. “They do tend to do that.” She jots something down on the pad of paper where she recorded his blood pressure. “About how long have you been feeling movement?”

Brock shakes his head, blowing out a breath. “I have no idea.” He grimaces. “My life's been such a mess—it was before I met up with these guys.” He gestures towards the other three men with his thumb. “But I couldn't tell you how long before.” He grimaces harder and chews on the inside of his cheek. “Hydra was keeping me in a cell with no windows or anything—I don't even know how often they were feeding me.” He shrugs, shifting his weight a bit. “I assume it was at least once or twice a day, probably even on a strict schedule—but I didn't bother to keep track.”

Claire's expression morphs into a sympathetic grimace. “You do look a bit underweight.”

Brock lets out a short, harsh laugh. He jerks his thumb towards Wilson. “That's what he said.”

Claire nods. “Well, I agree. It's important not only for the health of the baby but for your own health that you get adequate nutrition.” She pulls a colourful pamphlet out of her bag and hands it to him. It says, 'Nutrition During Pregnancy,' above a photograph of a cheery pile of assorted fruits and vegetables, brown-shelled eggs, and wedges of cheese. (The kind of cheese with the red wax on the outside that probably no one actually eats on purpose.) “I assume you already know the basics of a healthy diet, but that's just some pregnancy-specific info. You can find similar resources online, of course—have you been taking prenatal vitamins?”

Oh. “Shit.” That's something he really should have thought of. He grimaces. “They might have been giving me something like that before.” It's not like he would have known one way or the other; he had no idea what they mixed into his food or pumped into his veins. “But since I got away...” He shakes his head, blowing out a breath.

“Sorry,” Wilson speaks up, grimacing a bit himself. “I guess none of us actually thought of that.” No doubt they didn't even have such things in Rogers' and Barnes' time. “We can pick some up.”

“For now,” Claire says, pulling a plastic bottle from her bag, “I'll give you these.” She hands him the bottle; the label is a sort of sick magenta—very 'female', at least stereotypically. He just takes it and nods. “The high amounts of iron in those might make you nauseous—just fair warning.” He tries not to make too much of a face. As if he needs _more_ nausea. He makes himself nod again.

“Just one a day,” Claire adds, nodding to the bottle. “It's actually a lot more dangerous to double up than to miss a dose.”

Brock nods again, and sets the bottle and the pamphlet down on the couch cushion. “All right.” He can just take them with breakfast or whatever. Shouldn't be too hard to keep track now that he actually knows what time of day it is and such.

Claire pulls a device he doesn't recognize from her bag; two parts connected with a curly cord, sort of like the kind from old style phones. “This is called a 'Doppler',” she explains, “or a 'Doppler fetal heart rate monitor'.”

Brock nods. “Right.” He's actually had one of these used on him before, even if he was strapped down at the time and didn't get a very good look at it. He lets her put the sort of 'wand' shaped (or microphone shaped?) piece of the Doppler against his belly, and then he hears an unmistakable sound, but he still asks, unable to stop himself, “Is that—?”

“Yes.” Clare smiles warmly as she checks the readout on the sort of calculator shaped part of the Doppler. “That's your baby's heartbeat—good and strong.”

And Brock can't help grinning all stupidly, but there's a prickly swelling in his chest that feels like he might do something really stupid like cry. His eyes are itching, and he rubs at them roughly. Which of course makes it look like he's crying anyway. “Sorry,” he says, voice rough. It's not like he hasn't heard it before. But this...this feels more _real_ , now.

“It's fine,” Claire assures him, slipping the Doppler back into her bag. “Now if you could lie back on the couch...” She slides off to give him room. “I'll measure your belly.” Brock's not sure what she means, exactly, but he does as instructed, pulling his shirt up as far as his scars and his pants down enough to expose the whole swell of his belly. Kneeling next to the couch, Claire runs a measuring tape from his pubic bone up to the top of his belly. “You're measuring at thirty-two weeks,” she tells him, flashing him a smile. “Which is actually a little over seven months, but your estimate wasn't too far off.”

Brock nods a little shakily as he pulls his clothes back into place and sits up. “That's good, though? I mean, get it over with faster, I guess.”

“Well,” Claire says, slipping the measuring tape back into her bag, “you've still got a little ways to go—a normal pregnancy can be anywhere between thirty-seven and forty-two weeks.”

Brock makes a face. “So I could have ten weeks left.”

“Or, you could have five.” Claire offers him an encouraging smile. “But so long as everything goes well, your baby will come when it's ready.”

He grimaces. Is it bad that he's _really_ hoping for the five weeks rather than ten? It's not that he's exactly looking forward to giving birth, but...he kind of despises how his body feels, how it looks. He just wants to be able to go back on HRT so he can—maybe—feel like himself again. As much as he ever has, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The breastfeeding man Brock's thinking of is Trevor, a transgender dad who was actually welcomed warmly by his local La Leche League group. Since Brock only read the headlines, he's obviously unclear on the details.
> 
> Notes on characters and canon:  
> Sam's uncle is an OC; he could be the brother of either of Sam's parents (Paul and Darlene Wilson in Earth-616).  
> 'Claire T' is Claire Temple, who appears in the Netflix 'Daredevil' series.  
> Natasha Romanoff and Matt Murdock actually had a long-term romantic relationship in Earth-616.


	3. Chapter 3

“Did we order sushi?” Brock asks, rubbing a sleepy hand through his hair as he wanders out of the bedroom after a late afternoon nap. Wilson's called him for supper—Wilson usually calls everyone for supper, everyone who's there anyway. (Sometimes Rogers or Barnes or even Wilson is away, sometimes for days at a time, but Brock's never been left entirely alone—unless the last one slipped out once when he was asleep then slipped back in before he woke, but he kind of doubts it. He doesn't ask where they go, doesn't ask when they'll be back. It's really none of his business, and he kind of guesses they're doing important anti-Hydra, world-saving type work anyway. Someone's gotta be heroes, after all. And someone's gotta do the shopping—usually that's Wilson, sometimes accompanied by Rogers. Barnes mostly only comes and goes under cover of darkness, and always with a long sleeve and a glove steadfastly in place.)

“Nope,” Wilson says with a wide, proud grin as Brock eases himself down into a chair—one of the new ones Rogers and Wilson picked up the day after Claire's first visit. (They've also got a coffee table and an end table that don't match.) “I made all this.”

Brock looks over the colourful display and nods, impressed. “Seems like a lot for just the two of us.”

Wilson snorts softly as he sets four pairs of chopsticks on the table. “The grandpas should be out soon—just takes them a bit longer to get out of bed, considering I'm pretty sure they weren't sleeping. Even a little.”

Brock ducks his head, grinning crookedly. He's still yet to actually see them do more than hold hands and gaze lovingly into each other's eyes (or even more lovingly when the other isn't looking), but that's more than they could have risked most places back in their own time, so it kind of makes sense that they aren't exactly sticking their tongues down each other's throats and hands down each other's pants on the balcony or whatever.

He takes too long to dig in—though, in his defence, there are at least seven different kinds of sushi rolls plus soy sauce, wasabi, and pickled ginger, as well as extra rice, so it's really a lot to just kind of _see_ —because Wilson gestures to the food and says, “I know it's pretty, but I didn't make it just to look at.”

Brock rolls his eyes and dishes himself up one of each kind to start: California, teriyaki beef, teriyaki chicken, dynamite... The rest might not have official names. Or if they do, Brock doesn't know them. But there's a whole lot of meat and a whole lot of avocado, and it seems Wilson is, as always, very adamant in his ever enthusiastic quest to get Brock up to a healthy weight. Whatever passes for a healthy weight at this point, which keeps going up with each passing week—there are charts, of course, guidelines for how much weight a 'pregnant woman' should gain. And he's never quite there, always at least a little behind. But Claire's assured him that the _baby_ is gaining fine, so that's all that really matters.

Steve and Barnes finally join them, a little flushed but otherwise put together.

“Wow, Sam,” Steve says as he takes his seat, “this looks great.”

“As I was just saying to Brock here,” Wilson replies, dunking a piece of California roll in soy sauce, “it's not just for looking at.”

“Even though it is _very_ pretty,” Brock adds.

Wilson chuckles and, as soon as Brock has his mouth full of beef teriyaki roll, asks, “Okay, but more importantly, how does it taste?” Brock nods, chewing. He probably couldn't talk with his mouth full even if he wanted to try. But it's really great, and he manages to say as much as soon as he's finished swallowing.

Both Rogers and Barnes agree once they've managed to actually try it.

“Oh, yeah—Claire called,” Wilson says to Brock, spreading a bit of wasabi onto a piece of sushi with the end of his chopstick, “while you were asleep. Said she has to reschedule tomorrow's visit for the day after.” Brock nods in acknowledgement. “She also said to contact her if you've got any concerns before then.”

Brock doesn't have a cellphone, but Claire has Wilson's and Steve's numbers (possibly Barnes' as well), and Brock can use Wilson's computer to email her. She's busy with her real job, though, so he tries not to bug her too much. Which means, of course, that he's barely emailed her after the first time which was primarily to get him established in her contacts. She's the only one who's actually emailed him at all, it being a brand new address, and there's probably a new one sitting there right now letting him know about the reschedule. He does send out little, 'thanks, got it,' type emails in response to her when she sends messages like that, though she always calls or texts Wilson as well.

As they're clearing away the dishes, Brock says, “Thanks, Wilson; this was really great—I'm always impressed with your cooking.”

Wilson shrugs, leaning against the counter unconcernedly. “I try.”

Brock chuckles as stacks his dishes next to the sink—Rogers had offered to wash up for everyone (he kinda does that most of the time, but Brock's not about to argue with him). “Nah, there's no 'try'; you just _do_. Like Yoda said.”

“'Yoda'?” Barnes is giving them both a confused and mildly perturbed expression.

Before either Wilson or Brock can explain, Steve does: “It's from Star Wars—speaking of, we should watch those together if you haven't seen them, Buck.”

Barnes nods. “Sure, 'cause I don't think I have.”

“Yeah,” Brock says, easing himself down on the couch. “The Star Wars films are pretty good—all six of them; I never much understood the whole 'prequels suck' thing.” He shrugs. “I thought they were all okay.”

“Seven,” Wilson says as he puts the wasabi container back in the fridge.

Brock turns to look at him. “Huh?”

“There's seven Star Wars movies now,” Wilson explains. “Another came out in two thousand fifteen—they're doing a whole new trilogy, sequels to the originals.”

“Oh.” Sometimes it's easy to forget Brock also missed a bit of the world, though not nearly so much as Rogers or Barnes. He twists his brows in question. “Any good?”

Wilson shakes his head. “I haven't had a chance to see it yet—but I agree with you about the prequels; they weren't as bad as everyone said. Well, the _third_ prequel was pretty bad.” He makes a bit of a face then flashes him a smile. “But I really liked the first one.”

“First prequel was my favourite too,” Brock agrees. Before it all became an angst-riddled 'forbidden love' story and all that.

Steve slides into the seat at the other end of the couch. (Apparently he's going to wash the dishes later. Again, Brock's not about to argue.) “I don't think I've actually seen the prequels yet.”

“Someone tell you not to watch them?” Wilson asks, lips twisted into a small, knowing smile as he looks over at Steve.

Steve chuckles softly. “Pretty much everyone, I think. Clint and Tony, anyway. And Hill. And Fury.”

“Well,” Barnes says, sliding into Steve's lap—Steve only looks momentarily surprised before letting his arms come up around him and pressing a kiss to his cheek, “since I haven't seen _any_ of them—at least, not that I remember—we should watch them all together. All seven of them.” He looks from Brock to Steve to Wilson. He's got his flesh arm hooked around the back of Steve's neck, thumb curled over the top of Steve's shoulder. It's the most physical affection Brock has ever seen from them. It probably means they're relaxing more around him, that they (stupidly) _trust_ him on some subconscious or even conscious level. “Good idea?”

Patting Barnes' hip, Steve smiles fondly at him. “Well, I'm in.”

“Sure,” Wilson agrees as he sits down in one of the wooden chairs. “We can eat way too much popcorn with way too much butter. It'll be fun.”

“Hey,” Barnes protests. “No such _thing_ as too much popcorn.” He wrinkles his nose. “Or too much butter.”

One side of Brock's lips turn up, because as much as he hates feeling soft and fat and all (even though he's supposedly underweight, still), he kind of has to agree. At least on the butter part. “I'm in,” he tells them—it really doesn't matter what he thinks, but they're always telling him that it _does_ , so he might as well play along. It's less awkward. “If nothing else, I'm intrigued by this 'new Star Wars' thing. But you guys are gonna have to put up with bathroom breaks every twenty minutes, you know—though, for the ones I've already seen, you might as well just let it play.” Just his getting up will be a bit of a distraction, though. Rolling his eyes and sighing, he pats the round top of his belly. He smirks slightly. “Not that it'll make any difference to any of _you_ , but...pregnancy: I really don't recommend it.”

Barnes purses his lips, eyes thoughtful as he regards him. “Doesn't seem like it'd be all bad.” He grimaces. “I mean, if you had some say in the matter, at least.”

Brock makes a face, shifting his weight on the couch. “Ugh.” He shakes his head. “I really have no idea why anyone does this on purpose. Back's always sore, thirsty all the time but also having to piss constantly, getting kicked in the ribs, kept up at all hours, tired as hell, clothes don't fit...” He isn't about to start wearing 'maternity' clothes, though. Nope, sorry; not happening. “I mean, I guess I've actually been _lucky_ , because I'm not puking my guts out and my feet aren't swelling up—those are actual _common_ side effects.” He shakes his head again, making a disbelieving noise. “And then, even in this modern age of medical science, there's still a chance of just outright _dying_ from it.”

“A small chance,” Wilson says quietly. He's pulled his chair over rather than trying to squeeze onto the centre couch cushion. Brock nods, because of course Wilson's right, but the very fact that there's still a chance just feels so surreal. It's not that he's afraid of dying himself; hell, he deserves that and more. So long as he gets this baby to the point where it can survive without him, he'll be fine with whatever might happen to him after that. But women (and a few other trans guys) all over the world are facing that same risk, often magnified by a distinct _lack_ of modern medical science.

“I'd do it,” Barnes says quietly. He looks around at the others a little hesitantly. “I mean, if I could. If that was even an option.” Which, obviously it isn't, but still.

And Brock really tries not to be a jerk about this particular sort of thing, but...seriously, what the fuck? Even Steve's giving his boyfriend a quiet, careful, confused look. “ _Why?_ ” Brock can't help asking.

Barnes shrugs one shoulder, looking down at the metal joints of his left hand. He doesn't have the glove on, so his hand's on display, gleaming silver in the light. “I guess I always wanted kids of my own. My mom had two—I dunno if—well, Steve knew that.” He flexes his metal fingers, still looking down at them. “Probably remembers better than I do, actually. But I remember my mom putting my hand on her belly and letting me feel Becca kick. Talking to Becca too. I mean, we didn't know she was a girl yet, at that time. But Mom and me and Dad would talk to her through the belly.” He shrugs, grimacing a bit. “And we weren't supposed to play with dolls—boys, you know, back then. Scared we'd turn queer or something.” He rolls his eyes and laughs dryly, shaking his head. “But Becca'd let me play with hers sometimes—said I could be the daddy.” His smile flickers, soft and quiet. Dropping his gaze once again, he continues, “'Course I never figured then that I'd ever be able to have a real relationship with a guy either, never dreamed the world could change so much.” He shrugs one shoulder. “Always figured I'd settle down with some girl and have a bunch of kids.” He grins wryly. “Guess I figured I'd let her do most of the work, 'cause that's just what you _did—_ but I always wanted to cuddle them, help dress them, teach them to walk an' stuff.”

On impulse, Brock says, “You can have this one—if you want.” His gaze flickers from Barnes to Steve to Wilson. “We all know _I'm_ no good to take care of a kid. I just—I just want it to be okay.” The baby deserves a chance at a decent life. Not its fault Hydra made it. Not its fault it's currently stuck inside a terrible person who never wanted it in the first place and still resents its presence. He grimaces. “And you two love each other; you could give a baby a stable home and all that shit.”

Barnes has this terribly hopeful look on his face, like he's scared to even let himself want something this much, but he can't help it. Like the kid who found a puppy under the Christmas tree but hasn't quite yet grasped that it's really his, that he can really keep it. (Or maybe more like the kid who found an abandoned puppy by the road and doesn't know how to convince his parents he can take care of it so they'll let him keep it. Maybe somewhere between those two, maybe like he hasn't figured out which it is yet.) And Steve...Steve just looks downright _troubled_.

“I didn't know you wanted kids, Buck,” Steve says finally.

Barnes frowns at him in confused disbelief. “Yeah you did; I must have mentioned it at least a hundred times when we were growing up—or during the war: we'd talk about how we'd both get married and settle down with our houses right next to each other's so we could have dinner together whenever we wanted, and all our kids could be friends, close as cousins. You and Peg, and I'd find some girl too. We talked—” He shoves a lock of hair behind his ear and his expression grows far away. “There was one night, specifically, and it was cold and we hadn't been able to have a hot meal for dinner, and I said my wife was gonna be a great cook—I was gonna find one specifically, because neither you nor Peg nor me was much good at it. And I said I wanted at least four or five kids, and I asked you how many you and Peggy were gonna have—don't you remember?” His brows are drawn together in a worried frown, because of course he's always worried his memories are wrong.

Steve exhales heavily. “Yeah, I remember, Buck. Sorry. I do.” His eyes narrow, thoughtful. “I said Peggy only wanted one or two kids.” Barnes nods, looking relieved, and Steve continues, “We had talked about it, me and Peggy.” He swallows. Looking at Barnes, he grimaces. “I just didn't know you _still_ wanted that.”

Barnes makes a face. “Well, I don't want _all_ of it—I mean, Peggy's got grand-kids now. But we don't need the wives or the two houses, because _we_ can just have kids: just us.” He looks resolutely into Steve's face, his human fingers pinching the material of Steve's shirt where his hand rests on his shoulder. “It's _allowed_ now.” When Steve just stares back at him sort of blankly and kind of pained, Barnes makes an exasperated sound. “Just because I fell in love with you rather than some girl doesn't mean I stopped wanting kids—I've wanted kids since I was old enough to _walk_ , Steve.”

“Okay,” Steve says. “All right. Sorry. I get it.” He offers Barnes a grimace that's probably trying to be a smile. “So that's something that we can think about. Something we can talk about.”

Barnes stares at him, disbelief sublimating into anger on his face. “You don't want kids.” He rubs his metal hand over his mouth. “Fucking _hell_ , Steve; you woulda had _two_ for Peggy, but you won't even have one for me.”

Steve's brows draw together, worried. “What—I— Bucky, I said we could talk about it; that wasn't me saying no.”

Barnes slides off Steve's lap, shoving his hair out of of his face with angry hands. “Yeah, yeah.” He rolls his eyes. “At some point in the future. Not _now_. Not _this_ one.” He points an accusing finger at Brock's belly.

“Look,” Brock says, holding up his hands, “I didn't—I didn't mean to make you guys fight.” He grimaces, letting out a breath. “It was just a suggestion.” Hell, _someone_ has to take care of the baby. It just felt like the logical solution—Barnes wanted a baby but couldn't have one; Brock was having one he didn't want. He should have thought it through, should have kept his mouth shut. But when did Brock Rumlow ever make the right fucking decision about _anything_?

Barnes rounds on Brock, eyes intense. “This isn't your fault, okay? _None_ of this is your fault.” Except it actually _is_. Brock just drops his unhappy gaze to his lap. (What he can see of it, anyway.)

“Why don't we all just take a few breaths?” Wilson asks, voice calm. Steve stays curled miserably into himself at the end of the couch as Barnes shakes his head and paces over to the table. Wilson turns gentle, intent eyes on Brock. “Brock, I don't think you'd shared before what your plans were for after the baby's born.”

Brock shrugs, twisting his lips unhappily and resisting the impulse to fold his arms protectively over his belly. “I didn't really have any. _Don't_ really have any.”

Wilson nods. “But I'm getting the sense that you're not exactly looking forward to being a parent.”

Brock snorts, rolls his eyes. “Look, maybe this makes me a—an even worse person, but I don't wanna be a parent. Never did. I never wanted something small and helpless to feed and clean up after.” Never even wanted a dog or a cat for that matter. “After this thing is finally out of me, I'd be happy to just see it gone. Safe, though.” He flicks wide, worried eyes from person to person then drops his gaze to his lap. “I want it to have a chance, someone to take care of it that will do a decent job.” He shrugs. “I guess that's selfish: I want someone else to take care of three am feedings and all the diapers and snotty noses and vomit.”

Wilson shakes his head. “I don't think that's selfish; you didn't ask to be pregnant in the first place—that was just done to you. You don't have any responsibility here.”

Brock presses his lips together unhappily. “But _somebody_ has to take care of it.”

“And someone will,” Wilson assures him. “We could even drop it off anonymously at the hospital—could even ask Claire to do that for us, and she would. And it'd get fed and held and clothed. There's always a big demand for newborns; it'd get adopted pretty quick.” Brock nods, feeling marginally better—it's not that he didn't know all that, but it's still nice to be reminded. Someone will take care of the baby; someone will love it—it has a pretty good chance.

“But we're the voices it's been hearing now,” Barnes says in a small, jagged voice. He's standing with the fingertips of his right hand touching the surface of the table. “The footsteps it knows. If we hand it over to strangers, it'll be scared. Confused.”

“For a little while, yeah,” Wilson agrees. “But it'll have new caregivers soon enough, and it'll bond with them. It won't even remember—”

Barnes turns an expression of raw betrayal on Wilson. “Why the hell should it matter if it _remembers_?”

Wilson holds up his hands. “I didn't—I didn't mean it like that, Bucky.”

“You don't think I could do it.” Barnes draws an unsteady breath, chest shaking. He narrows accusing eyes at Wilson for a moment before turning away and rubbing his metal fingers over his mouth. “You think I'm too broken, just a weapon—only good at destroying, at killing.”

“No, no,” Sam tries to say—

—at the same time Steve says, voice firm and commanding, “Bucky, Sam didn't say that.”

Barnes moves his arms at his sides in frustration. “He didn't have to.” Folding his arms across his chest, he glares at Steve. “That's the real issue here, isn't it, Steve? You think I'm only good for two things: killing things you want dead and fucking when you're horny. You don't think I should have a baby, because you think I'd break it—you're trying to _protect it_ from me.”

“ _Bucky_ ,” Wilson starts, no doubt about to say something counselor-ly to defuse the situation.

But Steve interrupts: “It's not you I'm worried about, Buck; it's _me_! I don't—I don't know the first thing about babies, how to take care of one.” He shakes his head, grimacing and twisting his large hands together in his lap. “I—I'm sorry, Buck. But I just—” He grimaces again, dropping his gaze miserably to his hands. “On the USO tour, when people would hand me their babies and little kids to hold, they'd always cry. Every time. I don't know why people kept doing it; even when they'd seen the last kid cry right before theirs.” He looks up again, sad eyes flicking from Wilson to Brock then settling on Barnes. “Older kids, like five or six or so? They like me well enough, but little ones don't. _Babies_ don't.”

Barnes stares at Steve for a moment, expression quivering somewhere on the edge of sympathy. But then he scoffs and says, “But you thought it'd be different with Peggy? For the kids you were gonna have with Peggy?” And Brock almost rolls his eyes, almost snorts in derision, because this guy has some _serious_ jealousy issues that have gotta go _way_ back. If he hadn't fallen from a train and been brainwashed and frozen, it sounds like the idyllic little 'after the war' life he and Steve had planned out would have contained a lot more quiet, bitter resentment than Barnes would have ever admitted, even to himself.

“You know the reason those kids cried was because they didn't know you?” Wilson points out reasonably. “Same reason kids cry for Santa, or a grandparent they haven't met or seen recently.”

Steve grimaces, rubs a hand through his hair, shakes his head. He flashes Wilson a pained look. “Maybe, but...Bucky's little sister didn't like me until she was about five too.” He sighs, turning back to Barnes. “So I don't know,” he admits. He rubs awkwardly at his forehead. “We were in the middle of a war; I didn't have a lot of time to think about it.”

Barnes presses his lips together, places his hands on his hips, and looks towards the window. “But you still said yes when she asked.”

Steve sighs. “I thought I'd retire from the military after the war; I thought if I didn't end up dead, at least we'd _win_ , and it'd be over and we could go back to our normal lives.” He shrugs, grimacing a bit. “And I figured we'd probably end up with a couple of kids no matter what we did; it tends to just _happen_ that way with a man and a woman unless you try really hard not to.”

Barnes rolls his eyes towards the ceiling. “Do ya really need basic biology explained, Stevie? You said Peggy only wanted one, maybe two kids—how were you planning on stopping after she said 'enough'?”

“I was gonna let her figure that out,” Steve snapped back. “I'd do whatever she asked me, but since she was the one who'd end up having to carry a baby around for most of a year, the one who'd end up birthing and nursing and all that, I figured she probably knew what to do. And it's not like I'd never heard of a condom, Buck.”

Barnes snorts softly, shifting his weight, hands still on his hips. “That's the thing, though, isn't it? You always did what _she_ said, but _I'm_ supposed to listen to you.” He glares down at his feet, sullen. “I have to ask your fucking permission for everything.”

Steve's jaw hardens and his eyes flash. “You don't and you _know_ you don't; don't pretend like we haven't got past this, Buck. But you can't compare adopting a _baby_ with things like taking a walk by yourself or buying a candy bar at the convenience store.”

Barnes' nostrils flare as he glares at Steve from under his curtain of messy bangs, but Wilson holds up a hand and says, “Bucky, adopting a child is a _huge_ decision, not one anyone should enter into lightly, and certainly one _all_ couples need to talk about between the two of them before they make that decision—together, as a couple.” He sighs, shifting his weight a bit on the chair and gesturing towards Barnes. “This doesn't have anything to do with your past or your current ability to make decisions for yourself—which, for the record, no one is questioning.” He gestures towards his own chest. “If I had a partner—doesn't matter who it was—we'd need to talk, to have some serious conversations, about a decision this big. It's something that would affect every aspect of both your lives and affect your relationship in major long-term ways.”

Barnes nods a little jerkily, like he understands what Wilson's saying but just really doesn't like it. His jaw works for a few beats and then finally he squares his shoulders and relaxes his posture, raising his head to meet Wilson's eyes. “Okay, fair. I mean, yeah. It's huge; you can't just decide you don't like a kid after a week and send it back—well, I mean, I guess you _can_ , but then you look like a total asshole, and you probably kind of are. But, Sam.” He takes a breath, presses his lips together, frowns. “If you had a girlfriend, and the two of you ended up pregnant by accident—it really would be a different sort of decision at that point, wouldn't it? You'd be coming at the whole thing from the starting point of 'How are we going to make this work?' rather than, 'Here are the reasons we probably shouldn't do this', right?”

Wilson's brow furrows, his eyes narrow a bit, and he presses his lips together for a moment. “Well, yeah, basically, but—”

Barnes shakes his head. “But nothing. That's my point, right there.” He points at Wilson. “You'd get this random thing in your life and have to roll with it. And that's _life_ ; that's fucking normal life that the majority of the population has to deal with on a daily basis, and they do it, and maybe a lot of them aren't very good at it, but they still _do_ it.” He presses his lips together and runs his metal fingers through his hair then continues, “But because I'm in a relationship with a _guy_ —” He gestures to Steve. “—I have to carefully _plan_ and _think_ and _consider_ , because we _can't_ just accidentally have a baby.”

Steve's eyes narrow in confusion as he watches Barnes. “Bucky...I'm just a little confused here.” He rubs at his forehead. He sighs, raises his chin to meet Barnes' eyes. “What do you want from me?”

Barnes takes a step towards Steve, motions excited and eager, expression worried. “I want—” He stops, biting his lower lip. Sighing, he looks down at his feet. “I feel like if we just 'think about it', just 'talk about it', it's never going to happen.” Pain flashes across his face. “If we spend weeks, months, years just worrying about all the reasons it's a bad idea, all the logical, rational reasons against it—it's never going to be the right time.” He presses his lips together, eyes pleading. “One of us could die for real this time, and I—” He looks away, drawing a breath and letting it out. “You don't have to say yes right now, Steve; please, yeah, _think about it_ —but think about adopting _this_ baby.” He glances over at Brock's belly again, expression restrainedly hopeful. “Not just some hypothetical baby in the distant future.”

Steve regards him thoughtfully. After a moment he says quietly, “You really want this, Buck.”

Barnes sighs, looking down at his feet again. His head jerks in a tiny nod and his shoulders twitch. “I dunno if I've ever wanted anything so much, and I know that's totally not fair to you, and you need time to think, and I should just—” Tilting his head back, he takes a shaky breath and there might be tears in his eyes. “Sorry,” he says, turning away. “I—” He sighs. “Sorry, Steve. I'm gonna—” He jerks his thumb towards the balcony doors. Steve nods, and Barnes walks over and slips out into the evening air, closing the door almost all the way behind him.

Wilson heaves a sigh, looking from the balcony door to Steve. “You think maybe I should go talk to him—or just stand beside him or whatever?”

Steve grimaces in a sort of grateful way. “Yeah, um, if you want; he'd probably like that.” He rubs at the back of his neck. “I think he's happier with you right now than he is with me.”

“I s'pose I'll have to talk to _you_ later,” Wilson says quietly as he stands up, sort of a 'stage mutter' because he's talking loud enough for both Brock and Steve to hear easily, but pitched so it sounds like he's talking to himself. Even though his statement's clearly directed at Steve. (Even though Steve's supersoldier ears could hear him easily if he talked much quieter.) He joins Barnes on the balcony, sliding the door all the way shut behind him.

“Look,” Brock tries after an awkward, quiet moment, “I really didn't mean to cause problems between the two of you. I wasn't thinking—maybe it's pregnancy hormones or something, I don't know.” He shakes his head, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “I shouldn't have just blurted it out like that.”

Steve, quite unexpectedly, leans his head back against the couch and chuckles, all warm, amused smile and too-soft eyelashes. Brock stares at him, eyebrows twisted in confusion, because what the fuck? “Sorry,” Steve says finally. “I just—I love how you just apologize for things like that.”

Brock stares at him for a beat. “Wait, you mean...because I never apologized for the stuff that really matters?” He presses his lips together unhappily, looks away. “I could try if you want.” Sick guilt rolls in his gut. “I just—I know it'd never be enough.”

“Hey, Brock,” Steve says, shaking his head and holding up a hand. “You don't have to.”

Clenching his jaw, Brock shakes his head. “I really kind of fucking think I do, Steve.” He sighs roughly, blinking burning eyes.

Sighing as well, Steve leans back again, face tipped towards the nondescript ceiling. “You and I and Bucky—Hydra made us all do terrible things. They had different ways, different methods, different lies they told us, but in the end the result was the same: we fell in line like good little soldiers and killed the people they wanted dead.”

Brock stares at him silently for a bit, because what the fuck? _This_ from the guy who never bothered with a parachute when jumping out of a plane and then unleashed holy hell on anyone who got in his way when he realized that Insight was a threat to personal freedoms? Brock lets out a sharp, bitter laugh, shaking his head. “You were never a 'good little soldier'; don't _even_ with that shit, Rogers.”

Steve smiles, but it's a little sad. “I tried to be. For a while there, I honestly, _honestly_ tried to be.” He shrugs. “I thought it was the right thing to do, to protect people, to make a difference.” He sighs. “I trusted Fury, because he was a good man—he was.” He smiles a little sadly again. “And he genuinely wanted to do the right thing, as well as he knew how. But _he_ trusted someone he thought was a good man, someone who'd been his friend for decades, someone he honestly had _every reason_ to trust.” He shakes his head. “Loyalty can be a confusing thing.”

Brock exhales roughly through his nose. “Pierce was a real goddamned piece of work. Do you know he made me break Jack's arm once?” There was only ever one Jack on their STRIKE team, so Steve'll know who he means; they didn't exactly hang out together, but they knew each other's first names (even if they didn't generally use them). “In two places. And then made Jack _thank_ me.” He glares at his fingers as they brush across his knee, the material of his sweatpants soft to the touch. “I didn't know who I wanted to kill more: Pierce or Jack. But then, of course, I realized I had no good reason to be angry at _Jack_ , and the fact that I _was_ just further proved what an awful person I was.” He shrugs, twisting his lips unhappily and turning his head away. “Of course he made Jack break two of my ribs once, so I guess it all evened out in the end.” It always kinda did.

Brock drums his fingers against the soft material stretched over his too-soft thigh. “You were different, of course; we could never touch you, never lay a finger on you. At first, I wondered why—what made you so goddamned special.” He turns back, pressing his lips together as he takes in Steve's handsome, wholesome-as-apple-pie face. “But I figured it out, you know. I wasn't stupid. Maybe a little slow, but eventually I got it.” He drops his gaze to his lap, to where his large hand rests, pale, against the dark grey of his sweatpants. “I knew you were _good_. Maybe we all knew it; I can't see how anyone could have spent more than a few hours in your general vicinity and not figured it out.” He shrugs, grimacing again. “So when the order came through to capture you, to try to get you in that elevator, it wasn't exactly a surprise—I'd known we were on opposite sides for a long time before that.” He shakes his head, eyes stinging. “But you know, _you_ didn't know; you hadn't figured it out—you still thought I was good, thought I was your friend. And there was a part of me—” His voice roughens, threatening to break, and he clears his throat harshly so he can keep talking. “There was some small part of me that wanted—wished maybe—that I could just... _try_ , I guess. To be that guy you thought I was. To pretend, to keep on pretending. Because it didn't seem like it would have been so bad.”

“You considered switching sides?” Steve asks quietly, eyes narrowed and brow furrowed.

“Yeah,” Brock replies, voice rough. He scrubs a hand through his hair, laughs a bit brokenly at the absurdity of it all. “I considered just throwing everything away and my lot in with you.” He chews at his bottom lip for a moment. “When I saw you in that elevator, before the doors closed, I had this moment, this wild thought—I'd seen you fight enough times, and I figured—I thought: we could probably take the rest of these guys.” Of course they could have done it; Steve took them _all_ out on his own. But hindsight is always clearer and all that—at the time, he hadn't been really and truly sure (or maybe that's just a convenient lie he told himself). “And maybe Jack would have even switched too, if I did. Maybe.” He laughs, dry like the whisper of wind through September grass the colour of parchment. Like the sound of parchment in some dusty, forgotten library, sheet against sheet, faded and tired. “I dunno what we would have done _after_ , but I guess I basically figured I'd let you figure it out. Let you lead, and I'd follow. And I thought—maybe if I die protecting him, maybe that'd be enough. Maybe I could be redeemed.” His voice hardens. “But it was stupid, because of course that wouldn't be enough; this isn't some fucking story—this isn't fucking Star Wars and I'm not Darth Vader—I don't _get_ to be saved. I'm just a bad guy, and you know how I know?” His voice is rising, but he can't make himself care enough to make it stop. “Because I'm _nothing_ like Barnes.” He gestures angrily towards the closed balcony door. “He never had a choice, but I _did_ —I always did, like right then in that elevator. And I always made the wrong fucking one.”

“Brock...” Steve says, reaching for him.

But Brock says, “ _Don't_.”

And Steve drops his hand to his lap. He lets out a breath, quiet and a little shaky, and says, “Sorry.”

Brock rubs his forehead, pressing his fingertips so hard he'll probably give himself wrinkles. Nice manly wrinkles. (If only.) “Don't do that either—don't fucking _apologize_.” He sighs, looking away again. “Sorry, I mean—just do whatever.” He _deserves_ to feel bad every time Steve apologizes for something stupid and inconsequential. Maybe in the big karma or whatever-the-hell system of the universe, it'll eventually count for something. He rubs a hand over his mouth then lets it fall back into his lap, not quite slapping against his leg. “I don't exactly have the right to tell you what to do.”

Steve is quiet for a while. Maybe the conversation is over? But then he says, voice calm and firm, “I think you've been making some pretty good decisions lately, Brock. At least since you surrendered at that Hydra base.” He looks down at his lap then raises his eyes again to Brock's face. “We can't change the past; none of us can.” His gaze drops again, soft eyelashes sweeping through the air like the beat of an angel's wings. “No matter how much any of us might want to.” A muscle works in his jaw and his face hardens with determination. “All we can do is move forward. Find some way to live _now_ and make decisions we can feel good about. Even if it's small stuff. Even if it doesn't feel all that important. It's all any of us can do.”

 _Fuck_. Brock's tried so damn hard, but he's going to cry now. And he kind of deserves to, doesn't he? For Steve to see him like this, vulnerable and weak. He's not good and he's not strong and he's failed at every damn thing that ever mattered— “God,” he chokes. He wants to hide his face, but he's just realized he deserves to have Steve see him like this, so why be all hypocritically inconsistent? His hands ball into fists against his thighs. “Were you, um—earlier, when I told you not to...um, was that a—a hug?”

It's a stupid question, because Steve probably just meant to put his hand on Brock's shoulder, but... “It can be,” Steve says softly. “If that's what you want.”

Brock bites his lip until he tastes blood to mingle with his tears. He hisses and nods, eyes closed. “I think maybe I—maybe I _need_ —”

Steve shifts, moving closer on the couch to pull Brock into his strong, gentle arms, letting Brock rest his head against the solid warmth of his shoulder. Brock, worthless and ungrateful, just cries harder, soaking through the material of Steve's t-shirt.

He's supposed to be making better decisions—isn't that what Steve said? Some sort of 'blank slate', 'fresh start' idea. (Very Christian, no doubt, because that's the sort of thing Steve believes in, even though he is a bisexual guy happily boning his best friend. But...maybe it makes sense after all; it's not like Brock's ever read the Bible.)

But how is Brock supposed to know what 'good' and 'bad' even are? It's easy for Steve to say Brock's been making good decisions, but it's not like Brock's been faced with anything approaching _hard_. Steve and Barnes and Wilson have just been calm and gentle and friendly, helping him and taking care of him. First real moral choice, Brock's gonna fall flat on his face. Because any conscience he might have ever had has been burned out of him long ago, seared, like cauterizing a wound—maybe that's what 'order through pain' was always supposed to mean: kill a person's conscience, and he'll follow orders without questioning them, without throwing up afterwards out of guilt.

Steve's whispering gentle reassurances like, 'It's all right,' and, 'I've got you; I'm here,' and, 'You're safe.' Because of course Steve, noble knight, wants to protect. Brock kind of wants to punch him in the face for that, but he settles for hugging him harder, clutching, desperate and too rough.

The heavy, metalic sound of the balcony door sliding open cuts through Brock's muddled thoughts and he pulls back from Steve, finally wiping at the tears pouring in a deluge from his eyes.

“What happened here?” Barnes asks, and Wilson makes a quiet exasperated sound like he probably thinks Barnes should have kept his mouth shut. Or at least had more tact. Or something.

“I, um.” Brock glances at Steve. “I think—I think I apologized?”

“You did,” Steve says, all sure and _smiling—_ and kind of _shining_ and fierce, like he's _proud_.

“Oh,” Barnes says, sitting down on the near edge of the coffee table to face them.

“I didn't—” Brock looks from Barnes to Wilson, eyes wide. He owes both of them apologies—real apologies—too. “I didn't do it right.” Panic pounds, rough and tight, in his chest. Steve did all the fucking work, said all the right things while Brock floundered helplessly. Then held Brock while he fell apart. But there wasn't a 'right' way to do it, and that was the whole problem. There still isn't. He still _can't_. “Pierce made me break Jack's arm once,” he blurts out, and of course he isn't making sense. He's making far less sense than the vomit of words he'd spewed all over Steve. He sucks in a breath. “Twice, I mean, but it was the one time, and I broke his arm in two places,” he clarifies. Or tries to. “Jack—Jack Rollins—he was the closest thing I've ever had to a friend in my _life_ , and I broke his arm because Pierce told me to, and then Jack _thanked_ me, because Pierce told _him_ to. I, um.” He tugs a bit at his hair. Was there a point to any of this? He chews on his lip. “I did what I was told, and sometimes—maybe even a lot of the time—I _enjoyed_ it. But I never liked hurting Jack, not like that, not when it wasn't even my idea. And I—” He glances sideways, furtively, at Steve. “I didn't like hurting you either—and I know that doesn't make it any better.” Shit, he's going to ruin this again already. Whatever miserable, worthless scraps of apology Steve had sifted out of Brock's words...Brock's going to knock them away, and they'll be lost forever. He grimaces, looking from Wilson to Barnes again. “I know I hurt both of you too.” And it was wrong, obviously—does he really need to say that part? They all _know_. (They all know better than he does.)

Barnes tilts his head to one side, lifting one shoulder in an unconcerned shrug. “If it helps, I don't actually remember you ever hurting me.”

“In your case,” Brock concedes, “I more just stood there and let _other_ people hurt you.” His eyes flicker from face to face again, unable to rest. “I've never been any good at knowing what's right—and I've always been even worse at _doing_ it when I do know.” He draws a shaky breath. “I know that's not a _good_ reason. Not even close.” He drops his gaze to where he's got his hands loosely clasped between his knees. “But I think it's my reason.” He grimaces, miserable and helpless. “I don't know what else to say; how does, 'I'm sorry I tried to kill you', ever sound anything but stupid?”

Wilson shrugs. “It's a start.”

Brock almost laughs, and he does grin a bit, shaking his head. “Well, Steve said something about how none of us can change the past.” He glances sideways at Steve again, and Steve's radiating calm encouragement, and Brock has to look away. “But that we can move forward, and—that's kind of the point where I started crying.” He shrugs, pressing his lips together helplessly. He shakes his head. “I don't know if I can be a good person. But...I can try, I guess. Make better decisions—even if it's small stuff, like you said.” He turns to look at Steve again. And Steve's radiating pride again and Brock has to drop his gaze as his face heats, because there's no way he deserves that. (Has he ever, _ever_ in his entire life had _anyone_ honestly proud of him? Even when Pierce said it, he never meant it.)

“For the record,” Wilson says, calm and quiet and kind of warm, “I kind of feel like you've already been doing that—making better decisions.”

“Yeah,” Barnes agrees. “It's not easy, not at first—but you can get used to it.”

Brock shakes his head, sniffing. “That's not—we're _not the same_.”

“I know we're not the same,” Barnes replies. “But there are similarities. And I feel like it's more helpful to find common ground so we can help and support each other than to make it some sort of competition about who's suffered more or who's more at fault.”

“But you're not,” Brock replies automatically. “You weren't at fault even a little bit.”

Barnes presses his lips together, shrugging. “I _stopped_ —on the Helicarrier. I didn't kill Steve, even though I'd been ordered to do it. I even pulled him out of the water so he wouldn't drown. Maybe I could have stopped before. Maybe I didn't need to _almost_ kill him.” _Maybe I didn't need to kill anyone_.

“You—you shook off their brainwashing, their programming,” Brock protests. It wouldn't have even been the first time it happened. Hell, Brock had seen it happen, seen Barnes' halfways coherent moments, seen the lost look in his eyes. _That man on the bridge—who was he?_ “That's not the same thing.” He looks to Steve for help. “ _Tell_ him it's not the same thing.”

“It's not,” Steve agrees. “But, Brock, you know they kind of brainwashed you too. In a different way and to a different degree.”

Brock looks at Wilson, but he's nodding with this resigned look on his face, like he agrees. Like it's some truth he's known for a while and doesn't like it.

 _I'm not_ , Brock wants to say. _I wasn't._ But... He's done enough 'conditioning' on new recruits himself to recognize the same sort of methods from when they were used on him. At the time, he'd believed it, believed in the importance of what Hydra was doing (trying to do). Now, with no Pierce, no massive unified organization looming over him, no immediate threat of repercussions, he knows it's bullshit. He's known, really, since before Wilson walked into that room on the day it all went to hell. (Maybe he's known for a lot longer than that. It's surprising, sometimes, the complexity of the lies people will tell themselves so they can sleep at night.)

He stares down at the dull, fuzzy carpet, sighs. Maybe he just doesn't want to admit he was afraid. If it was always his free choice, then maybe Hydra never truly broke him. “Sorry,” he says, running a hand through his hair. They're all still looking at him. Surely there are better things to stare at, even in this sparsely decorated apartment. He grimaces, shrugging. “Guess I just don't wanna look weak. To seem weak.” To feel weak. He shakes his head again. “I'm probably not making sense.”

Taking Brock's wrist, Steve squeezes it. “It's all right; I think we get it.”

“Yeah,” Wilson agrees. “I've worked with a lot of veterans, helped a lot of people deal with their personal baggage, and it's not that uncommon, really, that sort of feeling. I mean, obviously the regular military isn't _quite_ the same as Hydra, but people still sometimes end up following orders they're not sure they should have followed, and questioning afterwards if it made them strong to follow an order that wasn't easy to follow, or if it made them weak to follow even when they knew it didn't feel right. The military, of course, wants soldiers who follow orders, so they tell you that's what makes you strong. But it really depends on your perspective.”

“I think, just in general,” Barnes says, “that we're all kind of way too caught up on this idea of strength as if it's the highest ideal—it's kind of inherently a comparison thing: I'm stronger than he is, so that makes me better than him.” He shrugs, spreading his hands. “Because otherwise what do the words 'strong' and 'weak' even mean?”

Brock twists his lips thoughtfully. “Maybe it's different for me, because...” He gestures vaguely towards his body. “Because of the whole trans thing. Men are supposed to be strong, because in general men just tend to be stronger than women—that's one of the main things the testosterone helps with, when I take it: more muscles.” More energy too, which is cool. “It's a good feeling.” He shrugs, grimacing.

“I think that actually makes a lot of sense,” Steve says, nodding. “Though, I mean, to be fair, I know at least one woman who could probably kick my ass if she tried.”

“Well, she kicked _my_ ass,” Barnes says, tilting his head to the side with a bit of a smile. “And I might just be stronger than you, Stevie.”

Wilson snorts softly. “How about we _don't_ try to solve that riddle through arm wrestling and break all our furniture?” It would actually be pretty fun to watch Barnes and Rogers have a real sparring session, not just arm wrestling. But of course, it wouldn't exactly be practical. Not here, anyway.

And it would probably just end with them making out on the floor.

Which, still...probably kind of entertaining.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes on characters and canon:  
> Jack Rollins appears in 'Captain America: The Winter Soldier'.  
> 'Becca' is Rebecca Barnes, Bucky's younger sister from Earth-616.


	4. Chapter 4

Steve's just finished washing up the breakfast dishes the following morning, when he says, “So, Brock.”

Brock looks up from where he's sprawled on the couch, trying to stay in some sort of at least vaguely comfortable position so his back doesn't hurt. Barnes and Wilson are...somewhere. Possibly even shopping; Brock had to use the bathroom (again) just after eating, and they were gone by the time he got back out. Brock watches as Steve dries his hands on the burgundy towel. “Yeah?”

“You're sure you want to give the baby away?” Steve asks, folding the towel and hanging it over the handle on the oven door. (The oven which, according to Sam, is just _too damn small_ to be really worth much, and yet in which he still manages to prepare perfectly palatable food day after day.)

Brock snorts, stretching his arms out, one over the back of the couch and the other along the arm. There is no universe were Brock Rumlow should be anyone's parent. “Yeah. Trust me; I'm sure.”

“What I meant,” Steve said, walking over and sliding into the seat at the other end of the couch, “was if you have some family or something like that—a sister or an aunt...”

Brock shakes his head, doesn't even bother to address Steve's implication that a _female_ relative would be best suited to take care of the baby. That's just how people thought in his time; he doesn't mean anything by it. “I don't have any family, at least none I'd ever want to see or talk to ever again.” Steve looks a little troubled though not exactly shocked by that revelation. Brock sighs. “My dad outright disowned me when I came out as trans. I think he actually thought it'd change my mind.” He makes a face. None of his dad's pathetic attempts at parenting had ever been very successful. “But anyway, I mean, it didn't, and I wasn't really close—at all—with anyone else. As far as I know, my dad was an only child, and both of his parents died before I started school. My mom was pretty... _not there_ , and none of my stepmothers ever warmed up to me.” He shrugs. “Not that I ever made it easy for them.” He draws a deep breath and lets it out. “If I have any half-siblings or step-siblings or anything like that, I've never met them.” He glances down at his lap for a moment, pressing his lips together. He looks back up at Steve. “Jack—and I guess _you_ —were the closest things I ever had to that sort of warm, fuzzy 'family' idea you see in movies, on TV. I suppose that's pretty sad, considering.”

“It is,” Steve agrees, all sincerity despite Brock's attempt at...something. Wry humour? Dark humour? It doesn't really matter.

“Anyway,” Brock continues, “I'm pretty sure Jack wants a baby to look after even less than I do.” Not that he even knows where Jack _is_. Or if he's still alive. He shrugs, staring at the corner of the coffee table. “But, I guess you don't either, so...”

“I've...been thinking about it,” Steve admits. He laces his fingers together in his lap. “I promised Bucky I would, and I have.”

“Well, take all the time you need, I guess.” Brock waves a hand. “Y'know, up to about the point when this thing gets born and needs someone to stick a bottle in its mouth.”

“I'll let you know before then,” Steve assures him.

Brock laughs. “I'm thirty-five weeks now. Kid could be popping out as early as next week, but we're hoping for at least the one after that.” Otherwise it'd probably need to be hospitalized, lungs not quite ready to breathe air.

“Yeah.” Steve scratches at the back of his neck, flashing Brock an awkward smile. “Guess we're all getting down to the wire.”

o0o

The next night, Brock wakes up because his belly's doing something...weird. Weird enough to wake him up, and not just the normal baby gymnastics he's come to expect. This doesn't seem to be the baby at all, but rather Brock himself; his belly's all tense and firm just under the skin, like someone literally shoved a basketball in there. Maybe even harder than a basketball. Well, it's kind of getting harder and then less so...and yeah. It feels weird, like a sort of pinching. A sort of rippling under his skin.

He starts swearing, probably a little too loudly, because he can't be in labour _yet_ , and of course wakes Wilson.

“Hey, it's gonna be all right,” Wilson insists in his hopeful, positive way, opening his laptop and pulling up his bookmarked sites. But...if Brock really is in labour, it's really _not_ going to be all right. Babies born this early have a good chance of survival, sure, but they're also really susceptible to lung infections. And Brock himself will probably have to go to the fucking hospital, be subjected to all manner of irritating questions about his body, his transition, and how he got pregnant in the first place. He bites the inside of his cheek to keep the panicked words from spilling out as Wilson finds the information he needs.

And... They're just 'practice' contractions. Perfectly normal, perfectly healthy. (Even something he would have expected if he'd done a bit more reading on pregnancy.) Just annoying. Nothing to have a fucking panic attack over.

Brock presses both hands over his face, “God, sorry, Wilson.”

“It's all right,” Wilson says, setting his laptop aside. One side of his lips turns up in a slow smile. “You're still calling me 'Wilson'?”

Brock grimaces. “Um.” He chews on his lip. “Does that bother you?”

Wilson shrugs. “It's fine. I mean, it's my name—one of them anyway: Samuel Thomas Wilson. But I prefer 'Sam'.”

Oh. Shit. 'Preferred names' are actually pretty important to Brock. Considering. Like, his entire life. And yeah. He sighs. “Sorry, Sam. I mean, you coulda told me...”

Sam waves an unconcerned hand. “Don't worry about it. You can call me whatever you like.”

“But don't call you late for dinner?” Brock tries with a lame attempt at a smile.

Sam blows a derisive breath through his lips as he settles back against his pillow. “Implying I'm not _always_ the one who cooks.”

Brock kind of has to grin, because it's true. But... “Sam,” he repeats again. “I can do that; I can call you that.” It's the least he can do, really.

o0o

Brock catches Barnes getting a glass of water in the kitchen the next morning. Steve and Sam are on a grocery run. Something they need to do quite often, feeding two supersoldier metabolisms and a pregnant person (who's still apparently underweight, despite everyone's best efforts). And maybe it's a bit ironic or something that Sam, the guy who inarguably eats the least does at least ninety percent of the cooking, and more than fifty percent of the grocery shopping. “Hey,” Brock says, trying to sound—to _be_ —casual.

“Hey,” Barnes replies, turning off the tap and taking a sip from his glass.

Brock rubs at the back of his neck. So much for casual? “Hey, do you mind when I call you 'Barnes'?”

Swallowing a mouthful of water, Barnes shakes his head. “Nope.”

“Okay.” Brock tries to fold his arms, but his too-large belly gets in the way. It's been doing that lately. It's almost up as high as his chest scars now. Sighing, Brock lets his arms fall to his sides again. “What do you prefer to be called?”

Barnes shrugs. “Some variation on 'James Buchanan Barnes' tends to work for most people.” He leans against the counter, eyeing Brock calmly. “So long as it's not 'Soldier' or 'the Asset', I don't much care.”

Brock blows out a breath. “I guess I deserved that.”

Barnes shrugs one shoulder, offering Brock a lopsided smile. “You kinda did.” He punches Brock in the arm with his metal fist—gently, but not too gently—he's using his human hand to hold his glass of water. He cocks his head to one side. “But even Steve calls me 'Barnes' sometimes.” He purses his lips. “Though, usually when he's pretending he's annoyed with me.”

“But it doesn't _bother_ you,” Brock checks again. Because...pregnancy hormones or something. (And he doesn't exactly want to seem like he's annoyed with Barnes either, but he's not sure he could actually call him 'Bucky' like Steve and Sam do.)

“Not even a bit,” Barnes insists. His expression turns thoughtful. “I think the only name I've never liked much is 'James'.” He shrugs. “But that's just because it's so damn common.” He turns towards Brock, leaning his hip against the counter. “You probably don't know him, but Tony Stark's best friend's named James. And in the Howlers, we had _three_ guys named James—of course not one of us went by it.” He shakes his head, takes another sip of his water. “Like I said, too damn common.”

o0o

“I just realized something,” Brock says over breakfast one morning. “If I'm having the baby here—not at a hospital or anything, and I mean, that was the plan, the way I wanted to do this...” The other three nod, expressions variations on encouragement and attentive listening. “Well, I guess all three of you are gonna be here too. When it's happening.”

“We don't have to be,” Steve assures him. “Bucky and I can take a hike, come back when it's all over.” Brock glances at Barnes who honestly doesn't look at all happy about that idea but isn't saying anything. “You wanted Sam there, though,” Steve continues, “right?”

Brock nods, glancing at Sam who's also nodding as he cuts a bite-sized piece off his French toast. “I do want Sam there, and I think Claire probably wants him there too—for the help, the extra pair of hands.” He gestures with his fork, his food forgotten on his plate. “It's safer to have two people who've got some idea what they're doing.” Sam nods again, humming agreement. “But anyway,” Brock says, dropping his gaze to his plate, “the reason I brought it up is because if you guys are all there for the actual birth, I guess that means you're all gonna see me naked.”

“Well, that's why—” Steve shifts a bit in his chair, glancing awkwardly from Sam to Barnes to Brock. “That's why we don't have to be here.”

Brock waves an unconcerned hand. “I think I actually _want_ you guys here—unless you don't wanna be; I'm not gonna be, like, all clingy and demanding about it.” He looks from face to face to face, smirking a bit. “It's just that—if you are all here, then you're all gonna see my tiny little dick.”

Steve drops his gaze to his plate, and there's a hint of pink on the top of his cheeks— _ha_. Brock's smirk broadens, because it's always fun to make Captain America blush.

Sam lets out an unimpressed snort. “Are we really gonna go there? Dick measuring? Really?”

Brock shrugs, spreading his hands. “I'm just saying: between two supersoldiers and a black man, I'm pretty sure I'm the smallest in the room. By _far_.”

Sam rolls his eyes, setting down his fork and leaning back in his chair. “Do you have any idea how annoying it is to be a black man when everyone believes that—not entirely unfounded—stereotype? I mean, you finally get your clothes off, and they're always like, 'Oh,' all disappointed, 'I thought it'd be bigger—that barely looks ten inches.'” Brock, Steve, and Barnes all laugh, sudden and uninhibited in their surprise. Sam just grins, apparently not quite capable of pretending he wasn't joking.

“Now who's dick-measuring?” Barnes mutters as he transfers another thick slice of French toast from the platter to his plate.

“Hey,” Sam spreads his hands, “I'm just saying—such is the life of a black man.” He takes a sip of his orange juice. His exaggerated, put-upon sigh doesn't really disguise his grin. “Y'all should pity me.”

Brock smiles slowly. “Yeah, I guess I do pity you.” He sets his fork down on the side of his plate and rests his folded arms on the edge of the table. “I mean, I always tell people I'm trans before I get the clothes off—fair warning and all, y'know—and sometimes I actually get an, ' _Oh, I thought it'd be smaller_ ', so.” He tips his head to one side, conceding the point. “Guess you all should be jealous of me.”

“Yeah, I never get that reaction,” Barnes says, shooting Steve a lopsided smile. “Steve's the one who actually got _bigger_ from the serum.”

“Wow, thanks, Buck.” Steve rolls his eyes. “I'm sure everyone at the table really needed to know the historical details of my genitals.”

“Well,” Brock says, levelling a look at him across the table, “everyone's always curious about mine all the time; I kind of figure this is just fair: so how big was it? Before.” Steve makes a soft sound in his throat and looks away, clearly uncomfortable. Brock hadn't actually expected Steve to answer. (And of course the question isn't _really_ fair to ask him, since Steve is one of the few people who _hasn't_ asked stupid questions about the appearance and functionality of his junk—when Jack asked, Brock just said, 'I'll show you mine if you show me yours', and Jack called him gay, so Brock laughed at him and pointed out how Jack had expressed interest in Brock's genitals first so what did that make him?) Chuckling, Brock refocuses his attention on his food and takes a bite—if he doesn't eat enough, Sam's gonna chide him like a misbehaving child.

But then Barnes says, “I'd say it was about two, maybe two and a half inches?” looking casually at Steve as if for confirmation, but Steve just kind of gapes at him. Turning to Brock, Barnes says, “Not that I ever saw it fully erect then, so—”

And Steve says, “ _Bucky!_ ” Barnes stops, but he just grins at Steve, face betraying a total lack of repentance.

One side of Brock's lips turns up. Folding his arms on the edge of the table once more, he looks at Barnes. “So.” Keeping his eyes on Barnes, he juts his chin towards Steve. “How big is it now?”

“Oh, my God.” Steve covers his face with both hands.

But Barnes just shakes his head, eyes flashing wickedness. “I'd never kiss and tell.”

“Thanks for _that_ mental image,” Sam mutters, pushing a piece of French toast through the strawberry syrup on his plate.

Staring in disbelief at Barnes, Steve makes a sort of shocked sound. “You literally just told him—”

Barnes holds up one of his metal fingers. “We never kissed when you were that size, so it doesn't count. And—” He holds up a second finger, one side of his lips quirking up. “—we all know how fucking _terrible_ my memory is.”

Steve looks a little horrified, but one side of Sam's lips tips up, and Brock can't help snorting. Because...well, to be fair, Brock isn't exactly an expert on anything to do with mental health, but...making jokes about something like that doesn't sound like too bad a way to cope. And hell, Sam, who actually _is_ something of an expert on mental health, looks like he approves.

Brock holds up one loosely curled fist towards Barnes, head tilted in a bit of a question and lips still tipped up at one side. If Brock can joke about his tiny penis, Barnes can joke about his shitty memory. Might as well. Barnes grins and bumps Brock's fist with his metal one.

As he's lowering his hand, Brock glances at Steve and Steve's actually smiling. Just a bit, and his cheeks are still rosy, but he's smiling. He actually looks...proud. But, of whom? Of Barnes? Of Brock? Of them both? It kind of makes sense, in a Steve Rogers' logic sort of way, for him to want them to get along. To be happy to see them interacting positively even, maybe. But what the everliving fuck does he have to feel _proud_ of in this situation?

o0o

They're about a third of the way through the first Star Wars movie—the first one made, not the first prequel—when the baby starts kicking at the inside of Brock's belly like it's a door the baby's trying to break down. Maybe it's getting frustrated from being able to hear the movie without being able to see anything. Brock rolls his eyes and shifts a bit, but of course that doesn't help. It never helps, but he always tries, regardless. Definition of insanity and all that. He swears softly under his breath.

Steve, who's sitting next to Brock, shoots him a questioning look. “You all right?”

“Yeah, sorry.” Brock waves Steve's concern away as Barnes reaches forward to pause the movie—it's playing on Steve's laptop which is sitting on the coffee table, since they don't exactly have a TV. (Does anyone bother with actual TVs anymore?) Brock sighs. “Just the little one, doing some exercises.” He tries for a wry smile.

“You could get up and walk around a bit,” suggests Sam from where he's sitting in a chair at the other end of the couch. He's still got his popcorn bowl in his lap—might even still have some popcorn left; he doesn't tend to eat as fast as the rest of them. “Might rock the baby to sleep.”

Brock snorts. “Might as well let it stay up now; maybe it'll actually sleep tonight.” Steve's giving him this sort of curious look, and Brock doesn't want to push since Steve hasn't said one way or the other on the whole adoption thing yet, but... “Did you maybe wanna feel the baby kick?” Brock asks, gesturing to his belly.

“Oh, um, I—if you—if you don't mind?” Steve shakes his head a bit, offering Brock a self-deprecating smile. “I've never actually...felt a baby kick before...”

Brock shakes his own head a bit as he takes Steve's large hand and guides it to where the baby's currently pounding him from the inside. You'd think maybe in nearly one hundred years a person might have felt a baby kick, but Steve didn't have any younger siblings like Barnes had—and he did sleep in the ice for nearly seventy of those years. “Here, yeah—you feel that?”

Steve's face splits into a stupid, awed grin. “Yeah. Wow, I didn't—I can really feel it.”

“Yeah, well,” Brock grumbles, “if you think you can feel it, let me tell you: _I_ can feel it a hell of a lot more.”

Steve chuckles as he lets Brock move his hand again. “Sorry.” He ducks his head. “I guess at least we know it's healthy. Well, I mean, probably.”

“It is a good sign,” Sam agrees.

Barnes is very quiet as he sits on the other side of Steve. Brock catches his eye and asks, “You want to feel too?”

Barnes twists his human and metal fingers together in his lap, lets out a breath. “Yeah.” Rather than trying to reach across Steve, he slides off the couch and kneels in front of Brock to offer up his human hand, letting Brock direct it as he had been directing Steve's. Barnes' face lights right up when the baby greets him with a quick little kick to the middle of his palm.

“Think that means it likes you?” Brock asks, offering Barnes a bit of a crooked grin.

Barnes shrugs, dropping his gaze to where his hand lays against the swell of Brock's belly. “Maybe.”

“Hey,” Steve says, reaching out and brushing Barnes' hair behind his ear. “'Course it likes you.” He shifts forward a bit on the couch as Barnes turns to look at him. “Been hearing your voice long enough, right? You're, y'know, familiar.”

Barnes' face twists into something that's probably meant to be more of a smile than a grimace. “Yeah,” he says finally. His hand rests, warm and full of longing, against the swell of Brock's belly.

Steve squeezes Barnes' shoulder. “Buck, can we...?” His eyes flicker over to their bedroom door. Barnes nods once before standing up and following Steve. It's a little uncanny sometimes how much those two can communicate without any words at all.

Brock stares at the closed door for a few moments too long before shaking his head. He glances over at Sam. “Do you think Steve—?” Was that really all it took? Feeling the baby kick? Seeing Barnes feel the baby kick?

Sam chuckles, smile broad as he nods. “Yeah.” He twists incredulous brows at Brock. “You didn't see that coming?”

Brock shakes his head, frowning slightly at the closed door again. He shrugs. “I guess you know them both better than I do.” Even if Brock's technically known both of them longer. Sort of. It doesn't really count, though, especially not in Barnes' case.

“Guess I do,” Sam agrees easily. The chair creaks a bit as he shifts, sitting up straighter and regarding Brock. “So...do you wanna play cards or something for a bit?”

Brock shrugs, scratches at the back of his neck a bit. It's not like he's got anything better to do if they're not going to watch the rest of the movie any time soon. “If you want.”

o0o

It's at least an hour later when Steve and Barnes re-emerge from their bedroom, holding hands and looking varying degrees of nervously excited. They don't say anything at first, just settle back on the other end of the couch with Barnes sliding easily into Steve's lap and Steve's arms wrapping around his waist.

Brock turns towards them with a calmly expectant look. Not that he's in any way calm, but. Well, years of Hydra training included some pretty decent acting lessons. “What's up?”

“You can, uh, finish your game,” Steve offers.

One side of Brock's lips quirk up and he makes a vague grunting sound, slapping his cards down on the coffee table. “Was losing anyway.” Taking a deep breath and letting it out, he squares his shoulders and shifts on the couch so he can regard them without having to turn his head.

Steve glances from Brock to Sam to Barnes then drops his gaze, clearing his throat. “Well, Brock...Bucky and I have talked about it, and—” He raises his eyes to meet Brock's. “If it's still okay with you, we'd—the two of us—would like to adopt your baby.”

Brock grins. It's easy and relieved and... _happy_. “Yeah,” he manages finally. “If that's what you—both of you—really want...” But they both really look like they do, like they're sincere and resolved and committed. Brock heaves a kind of surprised, happy sigh, shaking his head and looking down at his lap. “It's completely okay with me.” He rubs at the back of his neck, flashing a small smile at both of them. “I think you'd both be good at—at, you know, parenting.”

“Well,” says Steve, grinning nervously and tightening his arms about Barnes, “we can try our best—figure it out as we go along.”

“You're good people,” Brock says with confidence. “You'll do a good job.”

One side of Steve's lips tips upwards in a soft, sad sort of smile. “Even good people can do bad things—or do very badly at parenting, specifically.” He clears his throat, not meeting anyone's eyes. “I had a—a very good friend who was a very good man.” He grimaces. “He just—wasn't a good parent.”

Brock grimaces as well, rolling his shoulders a bit. “Well, okay, but that's all pretty relative, right? If he didn't actually kill his kids, I guess he's still doing better than some.”

Sam laughs softly, shaking his head. “I guess. But I think most people kind of want to do a bit better than that.”

Brock makes a face. “Well, sure; I guess even _my_ parents did better than that.” He snorts quietly, a brief, bitter laugh. Some kids wouldn't have survived in his position, though; he's seen enough headlines to know he dodged a few near-literal bullets just managing to navigate puberty as a trans kid in an unsupportive home.

Sam grimaces, nodding gravely. “Parenting doesn't come naturally to everyone, and not everyone enjoys it equally—or at all. But it can be—I mean, I've never actually tried it myself—” He laughs softly, shaking his head. “—but both my brother and my sister have kids, so I sort of know a bit about it, second hand and all.” He shifts a bit, pulling his shoulders back and shaking his head once. “There is a _lot_ of very contradictory and confusing advice; it can be nearly impossible to know if you're really doing it 'right'.” He glances at Steve's worried expression then adds, “But really, if you just go with what _feels_ right for most things, it should be okay. As humans, we really do have some biological instincts in that area, and a lot of the problems arise when people are taught to ignore those gut feelings and do something contradictory instead—like refusing to comfort a crying baby out of a fear of 'spoiling' it.” He wrinkles his nose. “There are some evidence-based guidelines for things like feeding and safety, car-seats and things like that. But for the more part, it's like you said.” He nods at Steve. “You do your best, figure out what works.”

Steve nods thoughtfully, resting his chin on Barnes' shoulder.

Maybe if Brock's father had followed his own instincts, things would have turned out a lot better. But he'd let a fear of the unknown or a fear of what other people would think or some combination of stupid social and cultural ideas dictate his life and his relationship with his child. Most likely, and the irony here was immense, he probably feared judgement _that he'd been a bad parent_. That he'd somehow 'caused' his child to want to be the wrong gender.

“Can I—” Barnes glances hesitantly from Brock's face to his belly and back. “Can I talk to the baby?”

“Oh—yeah.” Brock gestures vaguely to his belly. “Sure; go ahead.”

Sliding off the couch to kneel in front of it once more—still keeping hold of Steve's hand—Barnes scrapes his teeth over his bottom lip and swipes his hair out of his face before beginning, “Hi.” He clears his throat. “Hello, sweetheart.” A smile flickers across his face. “I'm Bucky—I'm gonna be one of your dads. Your other dad Steve, he and I are gonna take care of you. We care a lot about you; you're very important to us.” His serious expression softens into an overwhelmed, grateful smile. “We're real excited to meet you, whenever you're ready—no rush.”

o0o

They finally do finish watching the movie, and the following morning once he's done eating breakfast, Brock announces to anyone who cares that he's heading back to bed—he really didn't sleep well. Hasn't been sleeping very well. It happens. It's 'normal'.

But he still can't sleep, regardless of how tired he is, and about fifteen minutes later, Steve knocks quietly on the open door. (Maybe Brock should have closed it, but it wasn't any of the extremely inconsiderable noise from the rest of the apartment that was keeping him awake.)

“Yeah?” Brock grumbles, turning onto his back and meeting Steve's gaze.

“I...” Steve tugs at the hem of his t-shirt. “I know you're trying to sleep...”

Brock shakes his head. “Trying's the right word; it's not working. What do you need?”

Steve steps into the room, shoulders twitching in a tiny shrug. “I just kind of wanted to...talk to the baby. For a bit. If that's all right.” He grimaces. “I can be quiet—or try, I guess. So you can sleep. But you can say no. I won't be offended.”

Brock rolls his eyes. “Get in here, Rogers. Sit your ass down and talk to your baby.” Steve didn't take the opportunity when Barnes was doing it the previous night. Maybe he needed more time to think about what he wanted to say.

Steve smiles bashfully, ducking his head—and it's really one of the most adorable things, like a puppy or some shit—but he comes over and curls up on Sam's side of the bed, lying his head near Brock's belly. Maybe it should be weird, but it isn't—and Brock's slept in close quarters on missions before. Maybe not ever this close with Steve, but close enough. “If I'm bothering you, Brock, just tell me,” Steve insists quietly, “and I'll leave.”

But if anything, Steve's presence and voice actually help Brock's mind wander into that hazy, near-dozing state. It might have something to do with how Steve's not actually talking, but in fact _singing_ to the baby. And it's not English, not any language Brock recognizes, so his mind doesn't focus on the words.

“What is that?” Brock asks, tongue slow with sleepiness.

“Songs my mom used to sing,” Steve replies, voice low and gentle. “Irish Gaelic.”

Brock hums in response. “Know what it means?”

“Not really,” Steve admits in that same quiet voice. “Some of it is about God—blessings and prayers and hope for the future. I think one—or at least one—is about magic. And there's love, and family...and home.”

Brock just hums in response, and Steve goes back to singing, and maybe the lilting melodies act as a lullaby, because the baby calms inside him, and eventually the words he doesn't understand carry Brock away into sweet, welcome sleep.

o0o

Three days later, Steve gets a response about the contents of the flash drive. “There was very little Hydra intel,” he says, glancing at Brock over the top of his laptop screen. “Probably because she wasn't exactly aligned with Hydra anymore—or didn't agree with the current leadership—and was basically doing her own thing. Which was, as far as we can tell, confined to that one base.”

Brock chews on the inside of his lip. “Was there anything about the baby?”

Steve sighs, grimacing slightly as his eyes drop to the screen in front of him. “Possibly. As far as Natasha can tell, none of it's in an actual cypher, but the projects all have code names. So one of these is you.” His gaze flickers down to the screen as he taps his fingers against the edge of his laptop. “I didn't really tell Natasha what we were looking for, but now that we know it's not a cypher, I guess we can try to figure it out ourselves.” He glances from Brock to Barnes to Sam.

“Forward the email to us,” Sam says, then shoots a questioning look at Steve. “Or is that a security risk?”

Barnes shrugs his flesh shoulder. “Are we trying to hide this from the NSA?”

Steve makes a face at that, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. Of course he doesn't approve of the NSA even existing. It's way too close to Insight, just minus a few Helicarrier-mounted guns. He clears his throat. “I suppose if they were going to get it, they would have already when I sent it to Natasha or when she sent it back; we're using Stark Tech's best security, and I'm pretty sure Tony wouldn't be _knowingly_ handing information over.” He grimaces, shoulders twitching in a shrug.

“Might as well then?” Sam asks, brown eyes warm as his lips twist into a wry smile.

Steve lets out a breath, folding his arms on the edge of the table in front of his laptop. “Yeah.”

Somehow 'us' includes Brock, because Sam's handing his laptop over and checking the email on his phone.

And there it is in Brock's in-box: the forwarded email from Romanoff.

It honestly makes for _very boring_ reading.

After an indeterminate amount of time, Sam sets his phone aside. “Guess I'd better start dinner.”

Lucky bugger, getting a break from the group reading of boring-ass Hydra junk. But then, no one actually said Brock had to read any of it. They probably, actually, just meant to give him the option. To let him feel included in things that are kind of actually about him. And his body.

Brock sighs, shifting in his seat; somehow, the mind-numbing reading has actually still been distracting him from his back being sore as hell. Setting Sam's laptop on the coffee table, Brock stretches a bit. Ugh, it's going to be _so_ nice to just put this whole awful pregnancy business behind him. He glances at Steve, head bent over the laptop on his thighs—at some point he moved from the table to the couch—and Barnes by his feet, long legs sprawled across the floor as he reads from his own laptop. “Anyone mind if I lie down for a bit until supper?”

Steve looks up. “No, yeah—go ahead.”

“We'll let you know if we find anything,” Barnes adds as Brock's walking to the bedroom.

Nodding, Brock says, “Thanks.”

o0o

They all agree to take a break after supper to watch the next Star Wars film. Brock's seen it, of course, but it's still fun—a lot of fans insist 'Empire' is the best of the bunch, and that might be true.

“A lot of people lose their hands in these movies, hey?” Barnes says when Luke's getting his new flesh-looking robot hand.

“Like father, like son,” Sam comments with a bit of a lopsided smile.

Barnes snorts. “Maybe a bit.” He's quiet for a moment, then, turning to Steve, he asks, “Should I get Stark to put some fake skin over mine? Make it look all normal and shit? Would you like that better?”

Blinking a few times, Steve shakes his head, picking Barnes' hand up and pressing his lips to the metal knuckles.

Brock snorts, grinning and shaking his head. “You guys are fucking adorable.”

Steve blushes a bit, but he's smiling, and Barnes kicks Brock in the ankle. (It doesn't actually hurt.)

“They kind of are,” Sam agrees, shrugging one shoulder and earning himself a quick glare from Barnes.

o0o

Steve's washing the breakfast dishes the next morning while Sam, Barnes, and Brock are doing their best impression of a university study group. (Not that Brock has ever been to university—but he's seen it on TV!) Sam's brow furrows as he rests his phone on the arm of the couch, scrolling with one fingertip. “Wait,” he says, sitting up straighter—he's at the other end of the couch from Brock at the moment, while Barnes is lying on his belly on the floor. “I think maybe I've got something.” Everyone turns their attention on him, even Steve who's just set a dripping plate in the drain-rack. “'Legacy',” Sam explains, voice edged with tightly-restrained excitement. “These details are—they fit, I think.”

Turning back to his own screen, Barnes frowns, tapping a few times, eyes moving. “And 'the Chalice' would be Brock then?” He turns a frown on Sam then his eyes flick to Brock. “Did she seriously call you that?”

Brock shrugs as he's searching the document as well—Barnes has always been scarily efficient about these sorts of things, even with the one metal hand that you'd maybe _think_ would slip against the keys and slow him down, mess him up. “If she'd said it to my face,” Brock says, “this would've taken a lot less time.”

Barnes grimaces. “I just meant...” He drops his gaze to the carpet.

Brock snorts. He's found the relevant sections. “It's a bit poetic for Hydra, hey? Guess I wasn't yet another 'Asset' after all, at least not to her.”

Barnes shakes his head, face still twisted with dislike. “It's still—it's like...you're a _container_ to her.”

Sam doesn't look any happier than Barnes, but he says, “No, but that's absolutely it. The whole pregnancy-slash-baby thing is codenamed 'Legacy' and Brock is 'the Chalice'. There's even stuff about the 'damage' to the Chalice, and notes on how well 'repairs' are going.” He shakes his head, letting out a quiet, disgusted breath.

It reminds Brock, quite suddenly, of a picture he saw once of a vase that had been broken and put back together using gold as some sort of glue. Supposedly it's what they do in Japan. Or so the text on the picture had claimed. But Brock's scars aren't made of gold, and they'll never make him 'more beautiful' (regardless of if Steve with his fucked-up artist brain still wants to draw them). Barnes' _arm_ , though, _does_ make him look pretty freaking badass. That's probably a much better example for the repaired Japanese vase analogy. (Assuming it's even a real thing.) Barnes is better, stronger, for having been broken; Brock is just...well, he's never been much and he's never going to be much. Just a bunch of worthless parts that never did fit.

(Maybe Brock hasn't yet been broken _enough_. Maybe at some point, if he manages to lose enough of what he is now, he'll actually start to get better. Maybe.)

But now that they know what they're looking for, and what they're looking _at_ , it's easier to sift out some actual clues.

“It looks like...” Steve says some time later “...she just wanted a baby.” He looks up from his computer screen, eyes flicking from face to face.

Brock nods, scratching at the back of his neck. That is what it looks like. “Not some alien spawn or attempted supersoldier.” He drums his fingertips against his thigh, grimaces. “It's not such a strange thing to want, I guess: a kid.” It's even supposed to be coded into DNA: a drive to reproduce.

Sam hums in agreement but adds, “Pretty awful way to try to get one, though.”

Brock can't argue with that. But crazy mad scientists will do crazy mad science shit. It's kind of the main reason most of them joined Hydra in the first place: nowhere else would let them do the crazy shit they wanted to do.

And hell, maybe she just didn't have access to any alien DNA. Or whatever. That certainly seems more like the general Hydra 'science' Brock knows: why settle for a regular human baby if you can have something that flies and shoots laser beams?

But it's like a weight Brock didn't realize he'd been carrying is lifted off his shoulders with that knowledge: the baby's (probably) going to be fine. It's just a baby. The way babies are supposed to be. Nothing fucked-up for shits and giggles.

It's even apparent from the logs that he'd been getting prenatal vitamin supplementation—since before he was even impregnated. And he's been taking the pills now, dutifully every day since Claire's first visit. Again, the baby is (probably) going to be fine. (Brock's still underweight, but that doesn't matter; Claire always says the _baby's_ growing fine.)

o0o

“You're not eating,” Sam admonishes, nudging the edge of Brock's plate with his elbow.

Brock makes a face at the waffles; they stare back up at him, bright and decidedly _American_ with their fluffy curls of whipped cream, cheery-bright sliced strawberries, and quiet little blueberry polka-dots. “Sorry.” He pokes unhappily at the edge of one waffle—they're even the fresh-made kind, not the toaster kind (Sam has acquired a waffle iron at some point), and they really do taste better this way. Brock just doesn't have an appetite. “I guess I just don't feel well.”

Sam's eyes betray a hint of concern, but his voice is calm. “Well, don't eat if it's going to make you throw up.”

“Sorry,” Brock says again, pushing his plate back and pressing both hands over his face for a moment. “Normally, this would look amazing.”

“Pregnancy does weird things to your body,” Barnes comments, and of course he looks a little concerned as well for all his tone is casual. “My mom would get random cravings sometimes, and she couldn't eat eggs when she was pregnant with Becca—which she said was weird, because she ate them fine when she was pregnant with me.”

“Do you think you could eat something else?” Steve asks, all careful, earnest Steve-ness. “Toast, or—?”

“Maybe later.” Pushing his chair back, Brock stands up, keeping one hand on the corner of the table for balance. “I think I'm just gonna lie down for a bit.”

It would be an unfortunate waste of such nice food if the food had any chance of actually going to waste; either Rogers or Barnes will eat it—even if Brock has some sort of bug, they can't get sick anyway.

o0o

Brock stumbles out of bed some hours later, grumpy in the way waking up because he has to use the bathroom usually makes him. (And probably everyone, if they're honest.) Not that he's eaten much of anything all day, but whatever. It's not like he and his body have ever actually gotten along.

He takes a shower after using the toilet, hoping it will make him feel better. The water feels nice as it pours over him, but he still feels kind of gross. Maybe he's caught the flu? Or maybe it's a really, really late case of morning sickness. At least he's not throwing up. (Not that there would be anything to throw up. Just stomach acid, mostly.)

His belly's stupidly huge, but he's mostly made peace with that (and mostly learned how to keep his balance with his centre of gravity all out of whack), since it's not going to be long now, and then he'll have his body back. Just a few more...days? Weeks? Whatever. It's not much longer, anyway.

The one nice thing about his belly—if it can be counted as nice and there so little about his body that can be, so why not?—is that as round and feminine as it is, it's _hard_. When he runs soapy hands over himself to get clean, it's one of the few places that doesn't feel too damn soft. (His hips are _disgusting_ ; he tries not to touch his hips.) If his stomach was _flat_ instead of roughly the size and shape of a basketball, it'd basically be perfect. Because it's also as firm as a basketball. So yeah. Silver lining or some shit.

After drying off and throwing on fresh sweats, Brock shuffles to the kitchen. He's sore and tired as hell and he kind of just wants to go back to bed, but he hasn't eaten anything all day, and the baby at least needs something resembling nutrition. Can't actually live on prenatal supplements alone.

“Hey, you're up,” Sam says, looking up over the screen of his laptop. “Hungry?”

Brock shrugs, rocking his weight from foot to foot. “Should eat, though.”

Setting aside the computer, Sam stands up and joins Brock in the kitchen. “What can I get you?” One side of his mouth tips upwards in an encouraging smile. (Sam Wilson just likes to feed people, apparently. Maybe he needs some kids of his own—they're always needing to eat and can't do fuck all for themselves.)

Leaning back against the counter, Brock tries not to grimace. Even though he's got plenty of reasons to, and pretty much every one of them are just some variation on his body being a worthless piece of garbage. “You wanna wait on me hand and foot?”

Sam shrugs one shoulder. “Might as well.” He gestures with one hand, encompassing the whole—admittedly small—kitchen. “I mean, if you _want_ to cook for yourself, that's fine, but maybe try sometime when you're not feeling sick.”

Brock does grimace then, stepping away from the counter because it's hurting his back (God, when did he get so damn _sensitive_?). “I was just thinking toast. Maybe with peanut butter?” He rubs at the back of his neck where a few drops of water are escaping from his hair. “Guess it doesn't matter much who makes it.” Any idiot can make toast.

“One slice? Two?” Sam asks, already opening the bag of bread.

“Just one.” Brock eases himself down into one of the chairs. “See how that goes.” The chair is noticeably less comfortable than it's been in the past, because even the furniture hates him. He only manages to eat maybe one third of the piece of toast—possibly closer to one quarter.

“You seem...a little unsettled today,” Sam observes.

Brock's lips twist grimly, because 'unsettled' is one way to put it. He shoves a hand through his still slightly-damp hair. “Where've Rogers and Barnes got to?”

“Said something about drawing.” Sam shrugs. “I think they went to the park.”

Brock snorts. Fucking typical of these fucking artist types. He gets up and paces a bit. Yeah, 'unsettled'. Apparently. “Sorry.” He motions to the unfinished toast. “It was fine—I'm just...” He shakes his head.

“Don't worry about it.” Sam regards him calmly, but his eyes narrow. “I don't think you've left the apartment since we got here—is that right?”

Brock makes a dismissive noise, shaking his head. “Haven't exactly wanted to parade myself about like Hell's Kitchen's very own bearded lady.” It's both ironic and depressing how well that description fits. Sam looks like he's about to protest, so Brock snaps, “It's _fine_ , okay?” He can misgender himself if he likes; he doesn't need some well meaning bleeding-heart to defend himself against himself.

Sam sighs, looking down at his feet as he leans back against the counter.

“I'm going to lie down again,” Brock says before Sam can think up some counsellor-y thing to say.

“All right,” Sam replies easily. As if he wasn't itching to impart some well-timed wisdom. Maybe he wasn't. Sam's a pretty easy-going guy. Brock's just...snappish, snarly. It's the stupid pregnancy hormones. Screw them, really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes on characters and canon:  
> Sam's siblings, Sarah Wilson-Casper and Gideon Wilson (aka “Mr Gideon”), and Sam's nephews, James “Jim” Wilson and Jody Casper, all appear in Earth-616.


	5. Chapter 5

Brock wakes up some time later, because...what the fuck? He's in _pain_. But, wait, he knows this. He's felt this before: contractions. The 'practice labour' or whatever the fuck. He groans and rolls onto his other side. He just wants to go back to sleep, but that's not gonna happen until his uterus stops having its current tantrum over still being pregnant. He can understand its unhappiness with the situation, commiserate even, but he's still the one suffering here.

Every time it happens, he just has to wait it out. There doesn't seem to be a magic off switch. It's only ever lasted maybe twenty minutes, though, so it's more a minor annoyance than anything. It's just...even ten minutes can feel like an awfully long time when he's in the middle of it.

Finally giving up on getting any more sleep, Brock punches his pillow and rolls out of bed, padding out into the main room. Steve, Sam, and Barnes are sitting around the table playing cards.

“Oh hey,” Sam says, looking up as Brock approaches. “We didn't wake you for supper—figured you probably needed the sleep more. But there's plenty of leftovers if you're feeling up to it.”

Brock makes a face. He doesn't feel like eating no matter what they might've had, so he shakes his head. “Thanks, though, for letting me sleep.”

“No problem,” Sam replies.

“We can deal you in if you feel like playing,” Steve offers.

Brock pauses, fingertips resting on the edge of the table. It looks like they're playing Crazy Eights or some shit. It probably wouldn't be bad, honestly, to pull up a chair and join in. But he won't really be able to concentrate on the game or the conversation until these stupid contractions ease the hell up. He shakes his head again. “Maybe later.” Sam's watching him with concerned eyes—a diligent medic. Brock offers him half a rueful smile then sinks down onto the couch. They aren't picking up the game again, so he waves a hand and says, “Don't mind me—bed just wasn't comfortable.”

“Back pain?” Sam asks, pretending to look at his cards while still focusing his attention on Brock. (He's not as good of an actor as he thinks he is. But then, he's never really needed to be.)

Brock shrugs one shoulder. “Some. But I've had worse.”

Sam pushes back his chair. “You should probably have something to drink, regardless. What can I get for you? Water? Milk? We've got both orange and cran-apple juice. I can even make tea if you like.”

“Mother hen,” Brock grumbles, earning a bit of half-suppressed smile from Steve. Stretching his legs out as much as he can without actually putting them up on the coffee table, Brock says, “Might as well bring me some of the cran-apple since you're already up and all.”

“Did you want to watch a movie?” Barnes asks, because of course he's really enamoured with the whole Star Wars franchise at this point. All the dudes with metal hands probably make him feel at home.

Brock shakes his head. “Couldn't concentrate on one right now. Maybe once these stupid 'practice labour' things are over.”

Sam hands him a glass of cran-apple juice, eyes narrowing slightly. “How long has that been going on?”

Brock shrugs one shoulder, taking a grateful sip of the juice. Swallowing, he shakes his head once. “Woke me up—but can't have been too long, I guess.”

“But they're coming pretty often?” Sam asks with a small frown.

Brock shrugs again. “Too damn often.” He quirks an eyebrow at Sam. “Was I supposed to be timing them?”

“Maybe,” Sam replies, turning and walking back to the kitchen. “You're thirty-eight weeks now, right?” Brock nods; that's what Claire said at her last visit. Sam fills a glass with water then brings it back to Brock, explaining, “Dehydration can cause them or make them worse, so...”

Brock nods, taking another sip of his juice. “Maybe that's why they're worse this time.” He didn't remember that thing about dehydration, but it would make sense, because, “I mean, I haven't really drank much of anything all day; just slept.”

“Could be,” Sam says as he takes a seat next to Brock. “Let me help you time them?”

“Sure,” Brock says, less begrudgingly than he feels. They've never timed them before, though, so, “What do I have to do?”

“Tell me when one starts,” Sam says, “when it ends and then when the next one starts—just like that so I can see if there's a pattern and whatnot.”

“Why? Is it bad if there's—?” Brock holds up a hand. “Start—that's the start of one.” It's not even that it _hurts_ all that much. Not compared to the actual pain he's felt in his life. (Not compared to having his ribs broken—not even close.) It just feels weird as hell. And it's certainly uncomfortable. “Okay.” He lets out a relieved breath. “End.”

“All right,” Sam says, eyes on the screen of his phone. “And it's not 'bad', exactly, if there's a pattern—it'd just be a sign that you're in labour for real this time.” But he quickly amends, “I mean, if they're getting longer and closer together. And you're term now, so real labour would be fine, not bad at all.”

“Right.” Brock sips his juice again. “So how often means it's probably the real deal?”

“Every five minutes,” Sam replies, setting his phone on his thigh. “Or more often. For at least an hour. Well, that's when you're supposed to call your healthcare provider.”

Brock rolls his eyes. “You are my healthcare provider—one of them at least.”

Sam chuckles. “Good thing I'm already here.”

Brock nods, because that is true, but he also grimaces, taking another sip of juice, because this is going to be boring as hell, isn't it? Just sitting still for however long it takes them to establish if this is a pattern or not. Even at every five minutes, three in a row is probably not enough to be sure. God, this is going to take _forever_. Surely they can't be expected to time _every single contraction for the whole hour_ , though. Because that would really suck.

But the bright side, of course, is that if this _is_ real labour, then it means this is it. The end. The finish line. Last page, roll credits.

 _He'll be able to take HRT again_.

But...they don't exactly have a dose of testosterone kicking around, do they? So, okay: he'll be able to go on HRT again once he gets his hands on a dose. Whenever that actually is.

But anyway... “Start,” Brock says, holding up a hand to signal the start of the next contraction. He presses his lips together, shifts a bit on the couch. “Wow,” he grits out, “I think maybe this one's stronger.” It sort of feels like the strongest they've ever been, but maybe it's just that he's paying more attention. Or something. Then, _finally_ , “End.”

“That was about four minutes and forty-five seconds in between,” Sam says, voice calm, “and the contractions both lasted about forty-five seconds.”

Brock turns an unhappily helpless expression on him. “But that's not a pattern yet, right?”

“Might as well time a few more, yeah,” Sam agrees. “The practice ones can be really sporadic.”

Yeah. They kind of have been. Not that Brock ever really paid much attention, mostly just tried to ignore them until they went away. He glances over at where Steve and Barnes are still sitting at the table, looking anxious. He rolls his eyes at them. “What?”

Steve ducks his head a bit, drumming the fingers of one hand against the tabletop. “I was just trying to remember if we have everything we need.”

Oh, right. Steve and Barnes have been preparing for their new arrival by...buying things, mostly. Brock hasn't really been paying much attention to what, figuring they'd ask Sam and/or Claire and/or Sam's siblings who have kids what sort of things they'll need. But he's at least mildly curious at the moment and he doesn't have much else to do, so, “What all do you need?”

Steve clears his throat, shifting in his seat. “Not a whole lot, right away. Bottles and some formula, obviously. And diapers.”

“Some clothes,” Barnes adds. “Though, really, blankets would suffice for now if we hadn't already picked up a few dozen shirts and sleepers.” He flashes Steve a fond smile. They probably couldn't decide what was cuter and just bought everything. Fucking dorks.

But... Brock's brows draw together. “How do you know the clothes will fit? Not all babies are the same size, right?” He hisses, grimacing and holding up a hand. “Start,” he tells Sam.

After a beat, Barnes shrugs his human shoulder. “We got some in 'newborn' and some in 'three months'; newborn is the smallest baby clothes come other than 'preemie', but the baby's not gonna be _that_ small.” Which is true, assuming Claire knows what she's talking about; the baby's always been a reasonable size and growing well.

“End,” Brock says to Sam.

Sam nods. “That's the same as the last ones.”

Brock lets out a breath. “Okay.” It still doesn't necessarily mean anything. Even if it is a pattern now, apparently it has to last a whole hour before it counts. He sighs, turning his attention back to Steve and Barnes. “So do diapers come in those different sizes too?”

“Yeah,” Barnes replies. “But Sam said his sister bought the three month size right from the start, because apparently they tend to fit newborns fine anyway, so that's what we did. Better to be a bit too big than way too small.”

Brock nods. That makes sense. “You guys got a...” He makes a face. His mind won't supply the proper word. “A bed for the baby?”

Barnes and Steve exchange a look. “Well,” Steve says, “technically a baby can just share a bed with its parents, but yeah—we've got a bassinet thing.”

“Which the baby will outgrow eventually,” Barnes adds, “but it's a lot more portable than a full size crib and doesn't take up as much space.”

“Right.” Brock nods. He glances over at Sam. “There's not really a lot of room—where would you even put a crib?” Cribs, as far as Brock's seen, tend to be pretty damn huge.

“We'd basically have to push our bed against one wall,” Steve says, twisting his lips into a bit of a grimace. “Which wouldn't be terrible...”

“It'd make it a lot harder to _make_ the bed,” Barnes says, and Brock nods—that'd be pretty annoying. “But we were thinking after the bassinet—it's really a tiny thing—we could upgrade to a playpen, since they're still smaller than most cribs, and they can be folded up to move from place to place.”

“Yeah,” Steve adds, “and folded up, they're pretty easy to fit in the trunk of most cars with room to spare for other stuff too.” Because, yeah, they're probably not going to want to raise their kid here in Hell's Kitchen. Maybe they'll even want some place with a yard.

“Start,” Brock says, nudging Sam's side and making a face.

o0o

“Hey, Claire,” Sam says, “you're on speaker with all of us here.”

“Something I can help you all with?” she replies.

“Well,” Sam says, grinning a bit, “Brock's been having regular, strong contractions a little less than five minutes apart for at least an hour.”

“All right,” Claire replies calmly, but there's an unmistakable change in her tone—more serious, more businesslike. “Water hasn't broken yet?”

They all turn to look at Brock. He shakes his head. “I don't think so—I mean, I probably would have noticed, right?”

“Probably,” Claire agrees. “I'm actually on shift at the moment, but I can be there...” She makes a quiet sort of hissing sound. “My shift ends at eleven, but I can leave early if necessary.”

The last time Brock glanced at Sam's phone, it was about eight o'clock. It can't have been too long since then. “I'm fine for now,” he tells her. “Just, you know, a bit uncomfortable.” He chuckles dryly, shifting a bit and twitching his shoulders. “Not really a big deal.”

“Okay,” Claire replies. “Glad to hear it.” There's a smile in her voice. “But if your water breaks, or if you start feeling the urge to push or if the pain becomes more than you can bear, I want you—or Sam or one of the others—to call me, all right?”

“All right,” Brock agrees, though he's not really sure he'd know what 'the urge to push' would feel like.

“Steve and Bucky,” Claire adds, “do you two have everything you need? I could bring a few things with me—diapers, a couple of bottles of formula.” Because hospitals have those sorts of things.

“I think we have everything,” Steve replies, “at least for the first few days.” He glances at Barnes, biting his lip. “We don't have any baby soap or shampoo yet.”

“That's fine,” Claire assures him. “You don't need to bathe the baby right away, anyway; you can wait a day or two.” There's a brief pause and then she says, “I need to go for now, but call me if you need to, okay?” They all murmur assent and the line goes dead.

Brock shifts again on the couch, making an unhappy face. Now that they're no longer actively timing the contractions, he's been mostly ignoring them, so they're just kind of background noise. Generally irritating, but not holding his full attention.

The problem is, nothing else can really hold his full attention either. He wants to do something, but what could he actually do? He's too distracted to watch anything or read anything or...well, anything. This is going to be a very, very boring next few hours or however long it takes for his body to eject the baby.

Maybe humans should have evolved to lay eggs; that seems simpler, though of course they'd still have to get the egg out... So maybe not.

He shifts again.

“Back hurting you?” Sam asks.

Brock screws up his face. “Yeah, a bit. Guess that's normal, though.”

“It's certainly common, from what I've heard,” Sam agrees.

“Would a massage help?” Steve asks, eyeing Brock with mild concern.

Brock looks at Sam who replies, “It can help, sure. If nothing else, it could help Brock relax. Which would be a good thing.”

Brock looks from Sam to Steve dubiously. “One of you want to give me a massage?”

“If you're okay with that,” Steve replies. “I'd like to try. I actually got pretty good at massage when...”

“When I needed it,” Barnes puts in, “but I wouldn't let anyone but him touch me.” He taps his human fingers against his metal arm. “It's heavy, heavier than the other one, so it screws up my whole back pretty regularly.”

“Ouch,” Brock says sympathetically. It's probably a bit like carrying a backpack on just one shoulder. But all the damn time. To bed. In the shower. Not a single break _ever_.

Barnes shrugs. “It was never a huge deal when I was being put in cryo every few days or whatever, but as soon as I was out for a real length of time...” He shrugs again, making a face. “But you should totally let Steve show off; he's not lying when he said he got good at it.” He turns a tiny crooked smile on Steve who blushes just a tiny bit at the praise.

Brock rolls his shoulders. “All right. What do you need me to do?”

Steve directs Brock on how and where he should sit, settling behind him and resting his large hands on Brock's shoulders. “Tell me if it hurts or if you need me to stop.”

Brock rolls his eyes, snorting. “Pretty sure back massages are _supposed_ to hurt.”

Steve lets out a soft huff. “Okay, but there's the hurt that feels like it's helping, and the hurt that really doesn't. And I'm used to doing this for someone with superhuman strength and durability.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Brock hisses through a contraction, hunching in on himself a bit. “I get it. And I'll tell you if I need you to stop or whatever.”

Once Brock gets past the initial weirdness of Steve's hands on him, pressing into his muscles—the only one who's ever really done this for him before is Jack—it actually feels pretty good. Steve, for all his superior strength and admitted very single-target experience, is gentler and more patient than Jack. Which might have less to do with the differences in their personality and more to do with the fact that Brock is currently in labour—were Jack here, he'd probably be scared to even _touch_ Brock.

Or maybe he'd just laugh at him. One of the two.

o0o

Brock's in the shower again when his water breaks. Well, he's pretty sure that's what happens, even though he is in the shower, so it's a little hard to tell for sure as all the evidence is washed away almost immediately. Which is actually really nice and convenient, considering popular culture had led him to believe this was something that usually happens when a person's in the produce section of the grocery store or some shit—but maybe writers like to subject pregnant people to Murphy's Law. Just adds to the humour, the drama, the suspense.

But, okay. Brock's pretty sure his water just broke. He's leaning against the wall because even though he's not exactly in anything he could honestly call _pain_ , he's just so damn tired it's hard to stand up straight for any length of time. They're supposed to call Claire when his water breaks. He doesn't even know what time it is now, didn't bother to look before heading into the shower. Would Claire still be at work? How long after his water breaks can he wait before he has to call? Can he stay in here just a _little_ longer? It really is helping him feel better, even if it is just a bit.

Brock breathes through another contraction, trying to think calmly and rationally. As much as he appreciates the feeling of the water against his back, as much as this is probably the first shower he's truly appreciated since before he even got pregnant in the first place, he probably doesn't want the baby to fall out of him onto the shower floor. Sure, some people give birth in bathtubs, but they tend to do that while sitting down (and while assisted by a qualified midwife). The bathroom's a bit small to fit everyone—both his 'midwives' and the two adoptive parents—and the exhaust fan's a bit obnoxiously loud, so that's not going to happen. Not by choice anyway. It's not that Brock's hoping for some magical, perfect 'empowering birth experience' so he can feel like an Earth Goddess or whatever the fuck. He just wants it to go okay for the baby, first and foremost, and also for the adoptive parents. They deserve an opportunity to bond, peace and harmony, all that positive shit.

Switching off the water, Brock climbs out of the tub and grabs a towel.

o0o

“Sam,” Brock says as he walks out of the bathroom, “you should probably call Claire—I'm pretty sure my water broke.”

Looking up, Steve twists his eyebrows. “'Pretty sure'?”

Brock makes a face at him. “I was in the shower. So yeah.”

Steve ducks his head a little bit. Of course, it's really not his fault that he knows so little about...any of this. Hell, Brock barely knows more than Steve, and it's his body doing the whole 'get this thing out of me' shtick tonight. (He _has_ done a bit of reading, but still.) Speaking of 'tonight'... He looks from Steve to Barnes to Sam (who's on the phone, of course). “What time is it?”

Steve fumbles for his own phone. “It's, um, five after eleven.”

Brock lets out a breath, leaning some of his weight on the back of the couch—it would be kind of nice to sit down, but is that really a good idea when he might still have some 'water' left? The baby's head can act like a sort of 'cork', basically. It makes sense, even if it's gotta be really super annoying for anyone giving birth. You wanna lie down in bed? That's fine, so long as you put a shower curtain down first in case you involuntary soak everything. Probably don't want to throw out the entire mattress. At least sheets (and clothing) can be washed. But it's good that it's after eleven now, because Claire will be off her shift—though likely still at the hospital. Her feet probably hurt like hell, and she's probably tired and wishing she could just go home, but at least he won't be forcing her to run out early. Too much of that, and she might end up losing her job. No matter how great a nurse she is.

“Claire wants to know how far apart the contractions are now,” Sam says, looking up from his phone. “And if you need anything for the pain.”

Brock makes a face at him, waving a hand dismissively. “The 'pain' is nothing I can't deal with. But I haven't been timing them...they're closer together now than they were—she want us to time a couple right now?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, “and call her back. She's coming over anyway, but she wants to know.”

Brock makes another face. “Fine.” He sits in one of the wooden chairs by the table. The floor in the kitchen area is linoleum, so it's about as safe as it's going to get. He looks up at Steve as Sam makes his way over to join him at the table. “Steve, would you and Barnes mind getting the bedroom set up? With the shower curtain thing.” They'd talked about maybe doing the birth in the living room with the kiddie pool idea so popular on the internet, but Brock said he'd prefer the bedroom, and of course that was that. He didn't say why at the time, but it's because the thought of being naked in the living room made him feel exposed and on display. The bedroom feels safer, even if the exact same people are going to be there, still watching everything. But of course no one argued the point, because Steve and Sam and Barnes have always insisted Brock needs to be comfortable. (As comfortable as possible, anyway.)

Steve almost jumps to attention at Brock's request. “Right. Of course. No problem.”

o0o

Steve and Barnes are still in the room when Brock walks in, turning matching vaguely anxious looks on him. (Sam's on the phone with Claire but told Brock he could go lie down if he wanted, so that's what Brock's going to do—apparently too much walking around at this point might make the baby come before Claire does, and as much as that probably would still be okay...might as well not risk it.) They've spread extra towels over the floor all around the bed as well as on top of it, and of course there are cheap dollar store shower curtains peeking out at the edges.

“Thanks,” Brock says, offering them both a grateful smile. He sits down on the edge of the bed. “Claire's on her way.” When they hover uncertainly as though wondering if they should leave, he adds, “You should—well, one of you at least should probably stay...I don't feel the 'urge to push' or anything yet, but...”

“I could give you another massage,” Steve offers, and Brock grins even more gratefully.

He ends up nearly sandwiched between the two of them as Steve rubs his back, shoulders, neck—even his scalp? Steve asked if it felt okay, and it was weirdly relaxing. Steve's softly singing his Gaelic songs, and that's kind of soothing too (even if it is meant primarily for the baby). And maybe it should feel weird to be resting his head against the Winter Soldier's shoulder—the flesh one, but still—but Brock can't find it in himself to care. It's just a relief. To be supported, quite literally, as his body shudders and quakes and threatens to fall apart. (It's not even an empty threat; he could tear all the way through to his asshole or have his whole uterus just fall out inside out, and as thoroughly exciting as those possibilities sound, he much rather prefer _not_ to.) “Fuck,” he rasps. “Why the fuck does anyone do this on purpose?”

Steve chuckles softly as his strong, sure fingers knead the muscles in Brock's neck. “Guess someone has to, or we'd all die out as a species.”

“Doesn't sound so bad,” Brock grumbles. “We're destroying the planet anyway.”

“My mom didn't mind so much,” Barnes says, voice pitched low and most probably intentionally soothing. “She only did it twice, of course, but she said it was easier the second time. Used to say she must have got off easy the first time anyway, the way other women would complain.”

“It is easier for some people, yeah,” Sam says from the doorway. “Many different factors can play a role, the way I understand it, from the dice roll of genetics to general lifestyle habits like diet and exercise. Also, Claire should be here soon, but she insisted I keep a close eye on you until she is.”

Brock grunts. “I think it's finally started to actually _hurt_ , for the record.” But then he adds, before Steve can worry he's a failure or whatever, “But you're helping, Steve; that's—what you're doing—it's helping a lot.”

o0o

When Claire arrives, the first thing she does is ask—again—if Brock needs something for the pain.

“You wanna be my dealer?” He grins lopsidedly at her. Whatever she has might not be quite legal for a nurse to administer without a doctor's okay. Or however those things work.

“It's just an option that's available,” Claire replies. “If you need it.”

Brock wrinkles up his nose. “I've dealt with far worse than this drug-free.” He can take the pain; he's good at that. He's always been pretty darn good at that.

“All right,” Claire says, “I should check how far you're dilated.”

So Brock has to pull off his sweatpants, lie back and let her stick her rubber gloved fingers up his vagina. Which is about as sexy as it sounds, which is not at all. But he still tries for a crooked grin, and says, “You didn't even buy me a drink first.”

“Oh honey,” Claire replies with exaggerated sympathy, “you're not my type.”

“It's the dick, isn't it?” Brock gestures to the tiny, flaccid thing. “Too damn small.”

“You just keep telling yourself that,” Claire replies with a warm smile and a sardonic glint in her dark eyes. “Because unlike a lot of things, you can't do much about your dick.” Her expression smooths into seriousness, though, and she pulls her fingers out. “You're almost fully dilated, which is good. If you feel the urge to push, don't fight it.”

Brock makes a face at her. “I really have no idea what it would feel like.”

“Well,” Claire says, dropping her gaze for a moment, “it can feel a lot like having to poop.”

Brock lets out a rather unimpressed huff. “Good thing I already did that earlier today and haven't really eaten anything since.” Because seriously, what the fuck? How the hell are people in labour supposed to know if they actually do need to poop or if it's the baby? He lets out another huff, shaking his head. “Guess that helps explain my friend being born in the toilet.”

“It does,” Claire agrees with a smile.

It feels really weird to be naked from the waist down but still to have his shirt on—and he's sweating anyway—so Brock strips it off and just wraps a towel around his shoulders like he'd do after a workout at the gym. Except he wouldn't be naked or on a bed after a workout. Probably. But he can wipe the sweat off his face, so whatever. It's good. Sort of a familiar comfort.

Claire's done, at least for the moment, with poking at his genitals, so he's done with lying back and having his legs spread. It might be how everyone gives birth in TV land, but Claire and Sam—and his own reading on the internet—have drilled it into his head that it's not actually a good position for giving birth. At all. In fact, it has the potential to cause some serious problems for both him and the baby. He didn't pay much attention to the details, but lying back with his legs spread makes him feel like one of those TV women, so he's going to avoid it if at all possible. Claire suggested 'all fours' or crouching for the actual pushing stage, but since he's apparently not at that point yet, he stands up. He's a little wobbly, but part of that might just be from the absolute _weirdness_ of this.

Fuck, if he'd never experienced dysphoria before in his life, he'd probably be getting a pretty sizable dose right about now. He's fucking _giving birth_. He'd probably need to put on lacy floral pink and purple silk panties, strappy sequined heels, hoop earrings larger than his wrists, bubble-gum pink lipstick, shimmery blue eyeshadow, a giant-ass polka dot bow on his head, and a fucking _corset_ and then sing a bouncy, sweet rendition of 'I Enjoy Being a Girl' to feel more fucking _feminine_ than this. But of course he has experienced dysphoria. He's dealt with it and got through it. _It gets better_. The fact that it's a slogan aimed at teens doesn't make it any less true.

There are a lot of people in the room, but they get out of his way as he walks around the bed. It's not a lot of room to pace, but he did want to do this here in this smaller space. He groans, leaning his forehead against his folded arms up against the wall. Everyone can see his ass, of course, especially when he's facing the wall and showing it to them like this, but the other option would be wearing something like a skirt, and he'd really very much rather be naked. He clenches his teeth. Contractions, unsurprisingly, don't actually get more fun as they go along.

But he's probably past the point he could take anything for the pain, even if he wanted to. (Claire had said he was almost fully dilated.) Might as well just get this _over_ with. He walks another circuit of the bed: from the head of the bed, around the foot, and back to the head on the other side. And then another so he's back where he started. It's boring and repetitive, but it's what he's got. Can't really wander out into the rest of the apartment now—it's just this room set up with the towels and shower curtains.

With a bit of a yell—surprised and unhappy—he grabs the nearest thing to keep from falling. It happens to be Steve, but Steve's speaking softly, if a little anxiously, and doesn't push him away. Maybe this is what the 'urge to push' feels like, because it's really not quite the same as the regular contractions. There's also something running down his legs, either more amniotic fluid or blood. Or both. He doesn't look. “Um.” He looks for Claire instead, but she's already at his side.

“That looked like maybe you wanted to push,” she says, hand gentle on his shoulder. And she would know better than he would. She's seen this before enough times.

Brock pants against Steve's shirt. “Okay.”

It happens again, but he's a tiny bit more prepared for it. It's still not fun. “You're tensing up,” Claire tells him. “I need you to relax. Just let it happen.”

But the thing is...Brock doesn't know _how_. How the fuck does a person relax on command, anyway? Is that something normal people just _do_? “I don't know what to do,” he admits, still clutching Steve's arms despite the fact that Steve is holding him securely enough that Brock could go limp and Steve would keep him upright. All Brock's life he's had to fight. It's all he's ever known, all he's ever done. The world kicked him, and he kicked back. Bit back. Snarled and spat and got the world's bloody skin under his fingernails. But this... Of course, for all the blood and sweat and mess, it's still not a fight. It's not about violence; it's about _life_. About _giving_ life. It's the direct antithesis of everything Brock is.

He is going to have to go to the fucking hospital, let some doctor knock him out and cut him open.

He's crying. He's begging. He doesn't even know what he's saying. There's snot running down his face, and Sam's gently wiping it away. Somehow, he's sitting on the edge of the bed now with Steve next to him, arm still strong and steady around him.

“Brock,” Claire says with enough force to draw his eyes to her face. “If you can't handle the dysphoria, that's not a failure, all right?” She's going to suggest the hospital, the doctor, the scalpel.

Brock shakes his head. This isn't just a dysphoria thing. “I don't want to go to the hospital,” he tells her, tells them all. “That's—that's what I'm most afraid of.” He gulps, whole body shuddering. God, he feels so weak. “But I don't know— I don't see—” An escape. He shakes his head miserably, clenching his jaw.

“Brock,” Sam says, voice low and calm and soothing, “what do you need? What would make this feel more possible for you?”

It's stupid, because how can it help? But Brock tries to explain, haltingly and through more obnoxious contractions, how his whole life has been a fight and he doesn't know anything else. Sam was a soldier. So were Steve and Barnes. Maybe they'll understand. (Even if they can't help. It's not like any of them has ever given birth. But maybe it'll help him feel a bit better if he knows someone understands just a bit of how he feels.)

Surprisingly, even Claire seems to understand. She's no longer saying things like 'relax and let it happen.' “Push down and out with all your muscles,” she tells him instead. “Growl, grunt, roar while you do it—make it a battle cry.”

“Try this,” Sam adds, crouching down beside the bed. “Pretend you're on a battlefield and this bed is your cover.” Brock joins him, hesitant, but at this point he might as well try anything. Anything to avoid the alternative. “That's it,” Sam encourages him. “You've got this; you've done this a hundred times before.”

Brock can't quite transport himself to a battlefield, but the idea helps calm him anyway. Maybe it's a bit like a video game: find cover, crouch, crosshairs, zoom in. (The enemy can't see you here; you're safe, but he's not.) He grabs Sam's hand at the start of the next contraction, squeezing a bit too hard, but Sam doesn't complain or even wince. “Down and out,” Claire reminds him as he growls through the pain. “All your muscles—you've got a lot of muscles.” He'd laugh a little at the almost compliment, but he's too busy. Too focused on his target.

“Oh, God,” Brock pants. It feels very different now. He's stretching. The vagina he never wanted stretching to accommodate a baby's head. Steve's hands are on his shoulders, calm and warm. They're still helping.

Claire's grinning, bright and happy. “That was great! Just like that. You're doing awesome.”

Another. Another. The stretch is burning now, awful, insistent. Brock presses his forehead into the side of the bed. This is working. Keep focused. It's actually a relief when he feels himself tear. It should, probably, but it doesn't even hurt. Doesn't even sting. (Maybe it'll sting later.)

One more push.

“There's the head!” Claire says, excited and happy.

“Beautiful.” Sam's voice is warm and encouraging.

Somewhere in the room, Barnes is saying, “Wow.” He might be crying.

“Shoulders next,” Claire encourages. “The only hard part other than the head.”

The shoulders actually _do_ sting a little. His disgruntled flesh letting him know that it does not in fact appreciate a baby sliding through it, no matter how well-lubricated said baby might be. But then the baby sides the rest of the way out into Claire's hands with a gush of whatever disgusting substance was still in him. The 'amniotic fluid'. But it... It makes him throw up. He only has time to turn his head and avoid vomiting all over Claire, Sam, and the baby. It all gets on one of the towels instead. “Sorry, sorry,” he gasps, voice rough and shaky.

“No, that's...understandable,” Steve assures him, helping him wipe his face on the corner of the towel. “The smell, right?”

Brock nods shakily, but then jerks his chin towards the baby. “Your baby. You need to...”

The baby's still attached to the cord and the cord's still trailing up inside Brock. Stupid placenta thing. Right. But that slides out easily enough with the next push. (He's pretty good at this 'pushing' thing by now.) The placenta's soft, too, so it doesn't even hurt.

Barnes is there, kneeling next to Claire and Sam, shirtless and focused, cutting the clamped cord. The warm yellow light gleams off the blunt-end scissors and the metal of his arm. He looks up at Steve and says, “Steve, you should hold her. Take your shirt off.”

“Right,” Steve says, moving away from Brock to strip off his shirt. He moves carefully, hesitantly, tentatively as he approaches the baby. So very gentle as he touches her for the first time, sliding his large hands under her tiny body to bring her to his chest. “We, um—we're supposed to feed her now.”

“C'mon,” Sam says quietly to Brock. “Up on the bed for now.” He's moved the vomit-soaked towel away. Brock lets Sam's kind hands guide him. He's completely exhausted. Sore. Weary. Sam lays a sheet and a flannel blanket over him. God, he hadn't noticed he was shivering.

“I should probably weigh her first,” Claire says, looking up from where she'd been examining the placenta. “Though...” He brow furrows thoughtfully. “If you were breastfeeding, you'd do that right away, so it doesn't really matter. Maybe it's better if you have this time to bond while I take care of Brock.” She turns her attention to her bag—it's not exactly a traditional 'doctor's bag', but it's basically the equivalent.

“Here.” Barnes hands Steve a bottle he's apparently had stashed somewhere in the room, because he hasn't left to get it. Unless Sam grabbed it for him? Sam might have actually left the room at some point. The bottle's small, but then the baby's small.

“Here,” Sam says softly, offering a glass of water to Brock. Brock accepts it and Sam adds, “Rinse out your mouth if you want; you can spit into this.” He's got a bowl in his other hand. It sure beats the idea of trying to walk to the bathroom at the moment.

Brock does as Sam suggests then looks up again, blinking through the sweat that's running in stubborn, fat droplets down his face. Steve's sitting on the other side of the bed, and Barnes is piling flannel blankets over and around both him and the baby, but Brock's got a pretty good view of the baby's face. And she's _Asian_. Glossy black hair, unmistakably Asian-shaped eyes, and that flat Asian nose. She's kind of red and covered in dark blood, but it would make sense that she's got a distinctly Asian skin tone too to go with the eyes and nose. The water is blessedly cool in Brock's raw throat as he swallows. “I don't think she's mine,” he says dumbly.

Glancing over at him, Steve chuckles softly. He nods his head towards the baby nestled into the crook of his arm. “You don't see a family resemblance?” Brock hasn't come up with a retort to that when Steve turns his attention back to his daughter, brows drawing together with worry. “She's not eating—I mean, not any of it.”

“That's fine,” Claire assures Steve as she folds back the sheet and blanket from Brock's lower half. “Not every baby wants to eat right away.” Steve doesn't look too assured by that, though. And this is kind of the first responsibility of a parent, isn't it? To feed the child. Right up there with making sure it doesn't die of exposure.

It's not like Brock can help him, though. He probably couldn't convince a ten year old to eat French fries if both their lives depended on it. Unless he bullied the poor kid into it. (And the baby's gonna eat sometime. She's probably just not hungry right now. Probably just needs a few minutes to process being born and all.) “I did tear,” Brock tells Claire, since that's obviously what she's looking for. “I felt it.”

Claire nods. “I just need to see if you'll need stitches—sometimes, if a tear is small enough, stitches aren't necessary.”

Barnes sits down next to Steve. He's got a rubber glove on over the metal hand. He's probably had it on since before he cut the cord. “Let me try?” As Steve hands the baby over, Barnes adds, “I've done this a couple of times before—or at least, I think I have. And besides, I watched some videos about it.” The baby fusses a bit as she's moved, and Barnes shoots Steve a tiny smile as Steve hands him the bottle as well. “I think she likes you,” he says softly.

“She likes you too,” Steve adds immediately, smiling all soft as he looks down at the baby in his boyfriend's arms.

“I suppose she does,” Barnes agrees musingly as he teases the bottle nipple into his baby's mouth. “Ah, there you go.” The baby must finally be figuring out that there's food in that nipple and taking an interest.

“I'm pretty sure I tore enough to need stitches,” Brock tells Claire, though she's probably seen enough to know by now. (It certainly didn't felt like a tiny or inconsequential tear.)

She's gentle, but his body still tries to flinch when she touches him.

“You're right,” Claire says more brightly than the situation should warrant. “Doesn't look like you'll need too many, though.” She's got a needle full of some freezing stuff, tiny little steely wasp stings of spreading cold. The stitching itself doesn't actually hurt, of course; it doesn't feel like anything at all.

Sam's moving about quietly, cleaning up more towels and stuff. Steve and Barnes are leaning into each other, watching their baby figure out her first meal with matching expressions of adoration and wonder on their faces.

Claire's been working on Brock's tears for a few minutes at least when Brock suddenly says, “It's kind of stupid to fix it, isn't it? I might get the whole thing removed.”

Claire's hands still as she looks up. “I still need to fix it for now; you need to be able to walk— _carefully_ , by the way. And wait a few days before you try sitting cross-legged.”

Brock sighs. She's right; it's not like he's going to run out and get bottom surgery tonight. The doctor would probably demand he recover from the birth first anyway. “Yeah,” he says finally. Might as well let her do her job. (Even if it does mean he has to stay still, lying back with his legs spread. Again.)

It's easier if he doesn't focus on himself and the awful mess that is his body, so he lets his attention drift back to Steve and Barnes and the baby. They look so happy, so serene. A family, new and fumbling as a newborn colt, and just as breathtaking. It's almost painful, but maybe in a good way.

“But what if...” Brock looks from the baby to Steve to Barnes. He shakes his head. “I know it's a pretty low chance, but...” He resists the urge to shift on the bed—Claire's steadily working on putting him back together, and he doesn't want to mess her up. (It would be kind of rude.) “I mean, my parents thought I was a girl too.”

Barnes glances at Steve as he hands him the half-empty bottle. “I guess if she turns out to be a 'he', then we'd have a few extra medical bills.” He shifts the baby up against his shoulder, rocking a bit and rubbing her back through layers of blanket.

Steve nods, expression sombre as he sets the bottle on top of the dresser. He shoots a glance at Brock. “And it'd probably help to have an uncle around then who's been through basically the same thing.” Apparently Brock's going to be an 'uncle'; that doesn't sound so bad.

“But you wouldn't...” Brock grimaces, twisting tired fingers in the bedding. “You wouldn't _mind_?”

Steve shakes his head, blowing out a quietly exasperated breath through his nose. “Sometimes it seems like you all think compassion and logical thinking were invented in the year two thousand.”

“We'd still love our child,” Barnes says, cradling her against his chest, safe in the crook of his human arm. “No matter if she turns out to be a girl or a boy or both or neither. And we'd support her and help her in the best way we could—that's pretty much literally our job as her parents.”

Brock's roughly blinking back tears and it kind of really _hurts_. But he's done enough of that for one night, damn it all. “Sorry,” he says, voice rough as he rubs angrily at his eyes. “I just—” It's stupid, but... “I just kind of wish you two could have been _my_ parents.”

One side of Steve's lips turn up as he places a hand on Brock's shoulder and squeezes. He shoots a glance at Barnes. “We're certainly old enough.”

Brock laughs, rough and a little broken. They're actually old enough to be his _grandparents_ , of course. “Even if you don't look it—or act it.”

Steve turns from Brock to Barnes, smiling. “You think he meant that as a compliment?”

“Let's take it as one,” Barnes says, handing the baby back to Steve. “We're the cool parents. We're not like other parents.” He grins.

“All done,” Claire announces, laying the covers back over Brock's hips. As she's pulling off her gloves, she says, “I'll come by a few times to check and make sure you're healing well and that you haven't pulled out your stitches.” Of course 'all done' doesn't actually means she's finished (just finished with the actual stitches): she also makes him slide on an ugly-ass pair of stretchy mesh underwear with a huge as hell pad in them that feels even more like a diaper than regular sanitary pads ever did. Probably because it's about as big as three or four of the 'three month'-size diapers Steve and Barnes have for their baby. This is going to be the worst part, though, isn't it? The fucking _bleeding_. It's going to be like having his period again, but _so much worse_. “No heavy lifting for at least a few days,” Claire admonishes him as she rearranges the blankets to cover his legs. “Be careful. Take it easy. Don't push yourself.” If he has any say in it, he's going to be damn well _unconscious_ for as much of the next few days as possible. As much of the next few weeks. However long this takes. At least when he's asleep, he won't have to be aware of the awful things his body is doing, how awful his body _feels_.

Sam, leaning against the wall near the door, says, “Don't worry; I'll keep an eye on him.”

Claire's face softens as she looks up at him. “Good.” Pulling off another pair of gloves, she turns to Steve and Barnes. “I'll weigh her now—and measure her.” She accepts the baby from Steve, smiling down at her. “I can check on the baby too when I visit,” Claire explains as she works, “but I'll recommend a paediatrician as well—usually they want a baby's first visit at three days old.” Steve and Barnes share a look, but they both nod.

“Have you decided on a name yet?” Sam asks.

“Oh.” Steve turns to look at Barnes. “We, um. We talked about it a bit, but...”

Barnes grimaces. “We hadn't quite settled on anything.”

“Just don't name her Britney,” Brock grumbles. “Please.”

Steve shoots him a look. “Was that...?”

Brock makes a face, shifting a bit, trying to push himself partially up to sit against the headboard. Sam (of course) is right there immediately to help and tuck an extra pillow behind his shoulders. Mother Fucking Hen. “What my parents named me, yes,” Brock admits. “I _hated_ it.” He shrugs tired shoulders. “I know every kid's different...” Some kids probably _like_ being named Britney. Or Laci. Or Kitty or Florelle or Angelette or whatever other stupid, frilly, sparkly, overly-feminine names people think up.

“All done,” Claire says, handing the baby back to Steve. She hands a paper, presumably with the weight and measurements recorded on it, to Barnes. “Everything looks good.” She flashes them both a warm smile.

“Thank you,” Barnes says softly to Claire and Steve echos the sentiment.

Barnes nudges Steve's shoulder with his own. “But for names...” He glances at Sam then Brock. “We talked about 'Sarah'. For Steve's mom, to name the baby after her. But we both prefer it as a middle name.”

Steve's shoulders twitch in a tiny shrug. “We hadn't really thought of a first name we really liked.”

“What about the last name?” Sam says. “Are you hyphenating?”

“Um.” Steve ducks his head a bit, chuckling softly. “We hadn't quite decided that either.”

“We thought maybe we'd see what sounded best with the rest of it,” Barnes puts in.

“Jean, Cora, Tanya,” Brock says quietly. He laughs a bit nervously at the looks they're all giving him. “Those were the names I wished were mine when I was a kid and hadn't quite figured out I was really a boy.” Steve nods, looking thoughtful. Brock shakes his head. “I don't get any say in this.”

“But you're allowed to help us brainstorm,” Barnes says, nudging his knee. “They're good suggestions.”

“Could always call her 'Claire',” Claire says with a crooked smile as she's packing things away into her bag.

Steve laughs softly, baby cradled against his bare chest. “That's actually not a terrible idea.”

“Catherine and Elizabeth are both good,” Brock says. “If we're still tossing out ideas.” He bites his lip a bit. “Um, I kind of went through a phase when I wished I'd been named for a queen. One of the famous ones. A powerful one.”

“Jean Claire Elizabeth Sarah Rogers-Barnes,” Barnes says quietly, shooting Steve a tiny crooked smile.

Steve twists his brows at him then counters, “Tanya Claire Sarah Catherine Barnes-Rogers.”

Brock covers his face with both hands to avoid rolling his eyes. They can name the baby whatever they like; it's up to them and entirely their right. At least they're not talking about calling her something really stupid like a lot of Hollywood types do. North West and Prince Michael the Second and whatever the hell.

“Before I go,” Claire says to Brock, “I wanted to make sure you had this.” She presses a small blister pack into his hand—he squints at it to be sure, but he knows immediately what it is anyway: one week's dose of testosterone. “Just take note of the date when you take it, so you know when you can take the next one.” She tilts her head a bit to one side, eyes gentle. “I can even give you the next one as well if you need.”

“Fuck...” Brock whispers softly, holding the blister pack up in case seeing it more clearly will make it feel more real. “You're my dealer after all.” He kind of wants to hug her, but he doesn't really have the energy to sit up. Also, he doesn't really hug. Anyone. He's hugged Steve, but that's about it. And that was under extraordinary circumstances. He meets her eyes, hoping she'll understand how grateful he is. “ _Thank you_.”

“'Do unto others',” Claire says softly, “'as you would have them do unto you'.” She shrugs one shoulder. “I don't remember much from Sunday School, but I think there was something about that—and it's a good rule to live by, regardless.”

It's not a rule Brock's ever lived by—his motto has been more like 'do onto others _because_ they do unto you' or 'do onto others _before_ they do unto you'—but he still rasps, “Yeah.” It does sound like a good idea, a nice idea. (Probably even makes a manner of tactical sense, just in general.) “Thank you,” he says again. He's not sure what else to say.

Claire touches his shoulder. “You did well.” She nods towards the baby, expression soft. “You did very well tonight.”

And...maybe he did. Brock looks over at Steve and Barnes and the baby again. That is something undeniably _good_. And it's something he had a part in. It's probably the first really important good thing Brock has ever done. The first good thing that actually counts for anything at all.

It doesn't begin to tip the scales in the other direction, not after all the bad he's done, but it still _counts_. He lets himself fall asleep on that thought.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Do I really need to clarify that the baby is an OC?)
> 
> Big shout-out to everyone who followed this fic (all 24 of you) and everyone who's left kudos so far (all 22 of you), and an extra special shout-out to everyone who left comments and staked my Tumblr to yell at me about the fic. You all are truly the best. :)
> 
> There is a fairly high chance that at some point I will write a sequel to this from the pov of Steve and/or Bucky. You'll have to wait for that to learn what they name the baby. /evil laughter (Or, I suppose, [pester me](http://gastfyr.tumblr.com/ask) on [my Tumblr](http://gastfyr.tumblr.com/) until I tell you? I've actually decided everything except the surname.)


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